A Gut-Wrenching Experience
by KimberlyTheOwl
Summary: John struggles with an illness that is at first routine but miserable and then becomes downright dangerous…. And might it be Sherlock's fault that he is ill in the first place? Read and find out… Just a good old medical story, aka Sick Fic, for those of you that enjoy such things. NOT a death story. Complete; edited version up with chapter titles.
1. Very Domestic and Capable

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience**

**Well… I was stuck on the two or three more serious stories (at least one, maybe two reunion fics, as well as a serious bit of psychodrama involving John trying to help Sherlock develop some insight into his dreadful behaviour) that I was working on, so I decided it was time for something easy. How about a medical story, aka Sick Fic?**

**Summary: John struggles with an illness that is at first routine but miserable and then becomes downright dangerous…. And might it be Sherlock's fault that he is ill in the first place? Read and find out… Not meant to be slash, just once-in-a-lifetime friends, but feel free to read it however you like.**

**Warnings: none except for medical gobbledegook and graphic descriptions of physical misery. My apologies if the medical stuff gets too graphic but I live/eat/breathe this stuff in real life so it's not always easy to know where to draw the line. My medical/hospital knowledge is all US-based, so I also apologise for any Americanisms that creep into that area.**

**Disclaimers: I don't own the boys or their friends. We're all just having fun here, and spreading the love. I do own the plot, on a very personal level, as some of John's illness (though only some of it, thank goodness) is based on my own recent experiences.**

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Part One: Very Domestic and Capable

"John, I'm back finally." Sherlock looked at the time on his phone as he entered the flat. The trip down to NSY had taken longer than he had expected, thanks to unusual traffic patterns and a particularly dense cab driver. The ride back had been tedious in the extreme, with no John to discuss the completed case with or to make admiring (or annoyed) comments about his thought processes.

Entering the flat, he didn't see John immediately. That in itself was unusual, as John was overall a sociable fellow who liked to spend time in the sitting room and kitchen – even in a companionable silence – rather than his own bedroom, unless he was actually sound asleep. But as he walked around and hung up his coat and scarf, he could see that the bathroom door was closed. His flatmate was indeed at home and was probably getting ready to take an after-work shower.

Sherlock, craving tea to offset the chill of the wet and blustery weather outside, put the kettle on to heat. He hesitated before the mugs, then decided to get out the actual teapot. _John will most likely want some tea as well, and it's not as if it is any more trouble to make a full pot._

Just as the kettle began to whistle and just as he was pouring the resultant merrily boiling water over the tea into the waiting teapot, he saw John out of the corner of his eye, emerging from the bathroom. As he finished pouring and put the kettle back into its base, he turned to look at his friend.

John didn't look as if he'd just come home from his erratic hours as a locum tenens at the surgery. In fact, clad as he was in pyjamas and robe, he looked as if he'd just crawled out from under the blankets of his bed. Sherlock looked more closely, and saw the pasty complexion and the beads of sweat on his forehead. Against his will, his sensitive nose also noted the unpleasant and pungent aromas coming from the recently vacated bathroom.

"H'lo, Sherlock. Bit indisposed." Was that a shudder passing through John's sturdy, compact frame? "Think I'll head back to bed." He was actually leaning on the wall in the corridor, looking extremely shaky.

"You worked today?"

John grimaced. "In a manner of speaking. Came home early. No point in seeing patients if the doctor is sicker than they are."

"I've got tea brewing," Sherlock said. "You could sit down and have some, before you go back to bed."

He could see John appearing to consider the option, then his friend nodded. "That's probably a good idea. I need fluids, and I'm cold."

Sherlock watched closely as John made his unsteady way into the kitchen and sat down. He didn't need a thermometer to tell that his friend undoubtedly had a roaring fever; the fact was evident both in his appearance and in the waves of heat coming off of the man. On the other hand, while he looked miserable, he didn't appear to be dehydrated or especially shaky. Once John was seated, Sherlock poured him a cup of tea, added milk, and placed it within reach.

"Thanks." John sipped at the scalding liquid. "Must have picked up a bit of a virus from the patients. In fact, I can visualize one little kid in particular who probably gave me this." He sighed. "Tea is just what I needed."

"Fever, sweats, diarrhoea… vomiting?"

John sighed again. "Never any hiding anything from you, is there? No, no vomiting, but no appetite either. I slept for a couple of hours after I came home, but still work up feeling pretty awful." He swirled the cup of tea. "This has only been lasting about 24 to 48 hours in the kids. Hopefully at my age I'll be over it even faster."

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John made his way back upstairs soon after that, and Sherlock settled in with a book while he thought half-heartedly about dinner. It felt strange to have John incapacitated after the conclusion of a case; usually after a case of any size they would both be in a celebratory mood and perhaps heading out to one of London's many ethnic restaurants. They'd order something new and tasty and analyze both their successes and those aspects of their work that could use improvement.

It was clear that John was in no shape to go anywhere, yet Sherlock was hungry after his usual erratic intake of food during an active case. And despite John's illness, perhaps a spot of dinner would set him up and help him feel better. Feeling suddenly decisive, he walked upstairs and knocked on his flatmate's closed door.

"John?"

There was a sort of answering moan. Sherlock opened the door and peered inside. He could just barely see John in the dim light, curled up on his side in bed. The room was warm and stuffy and the air none too fresh; he wrinkled his nose involuntarily.

"John, I'm going to order some takeaway. Are you at all hungry?" He added, "Does this kind of illness require any specific kind of food?"

John's head emerged from the cocoon of blankets. "Ugh. Um, yes, a little bit hungry." He appeared to think for a moment. "Something light, I guess. Asian? Soup or rice, maybe a bit of fish? Not very much, though." He tightened his arms over his belly. "I tried having a bit of toast right when I came home, and it went right through me.'

"I was thinking about Chinese anyway. I'll get you some soup and plain rice."

"Thanks," answered John hoarsely. "Um… Sherlock, the blanket over there… do you think you could hand it to me?"

There was a spare blanket folded up and resting on top of John's dresser. Sherlock fetched it and, ignoring John's original instructions, spread it carefully over the portion of the bed than contained John. He noticed as he did so that John's teeth were chattering, and he shook his head.

"I'll bring your food up here when it comes," he said, and frowned with faint worry when an un-protesting John merely burrowed further into the bed and made no response.

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The food arrived about 45 minutes later; during that time, Sherlock observed that John made two more shaky trips down the stairs to disappear into the bathroom for prolonged periods. The second trip was carried out in some haste, he noticed; John was clearly a man with a mission on his mind. He looked white and miserable when he emerged to drag himself slowly up the stairs to his room.

Lacking a proper bed tray, Sherlock was about to go downstairs to plunder Mrs. Hudson's kitchen when he remember the baking sheet that John had used earlier in the week for … something, Sherlock couldn't remember what. He grabbed it from the cupboard, lined it with a tea towel, added the takeout containers of rice and won ton soup and a spoon, and felt very domestic and capable as he carried it carefully up the stairs to his friend's room.

He kneed the door open in lieu of knocking, and was gratified to see John sitting up in bed with a bedside lamp turned on.

"That smells wonderful," admitted John. "I'm suddenly starving."

Sherlock set the makeshift tray down on the bed, carefully. "Good. You're the doctor, but I would hazard a guess that your hunger means that you are already getting better."

"I hope you're right," John agreed fervently, and picked up the spoon to tackle his soup. Sherlock watched him take a few bites, then nodded to himself.

"I'll be back in a while to check on you."

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Downstairs, he ate his solitary meal of General Tso's Chicken, rice, and eggrolls, and sipped more tea. When he at last went back upstairs to collect the tray, he was pleased to see that John was sound asleep and that every bit of soup and rice had been consumed. He picked up the tray and its contents and made his way back downstairs as silently as possible, obscurely proud of his amateur nursing efforts.

He returned to reading on the couch. John slept for about an hour, then Sherlock heard the upstairs bedroom door open and the already-familiar sound of his friend half-walking, half-sliding down the stairs to get to the bathroom as quickly as possible. Again, he disappeared into the bathroom for a long time.

This cycle repeated itself several more times. Each time, the interval that John spent in bed was shorter, while the interval he spent in the bathroom was longer. Sherlock finally gave up on his book and got out his violin; John clearly wasn't sleeping anyway and some music to cover up the distressing sounds from down the hall was rapidly becoming a priority.

He kept an eye out for John, though, and put the violin down once he saw his friend's white and pinched face emerging from the bathroom.

"John, come here for a moment."

"I'm dying, Sherlock. Whatever it is, it can wait."

Sherlock stood up, and crossed the distance between them in a few seconds. "You're not dying. But you need to come sit down out here for a moment." He put a hand under John's elbow and propelled him rapidly to the couch, meeting little actual resistance.

"Now. Sit, and drink something. You're going to become dehydrated. What would you like? Water, tea?" He mentally ran through their rather pitiful inventory of potable liquids. Wine and beer were probably not good options.

"Water," John croaked.

He fetched his friend a tall glass of cool water and watched him finish it. "John," he said as the last drops disappeared and John lay down on the couch, "I think you had better sleep downstairs tonight."

John shot him a dirty look. "When a man's sick, he wants his own bed. And privacy, damn it."

"I'm worried that you are going to fall coming down the stairs. It would be safer for you to be closer to the bathroom."

"Sherlock, I appreciate the concern. And you've been a big help so far, much more than I really expected. But…" John scrubbed at his sweating forehead with his wrist. "But this isn't like taking care of some hero in a novel with a glamorous illness. I hurt… I hurt a lot, and my gut is making horrible noises, and I've got terrible gas, and so my bedroom smells worse than any experiment you've ever concocted in the kitchen." He sighed. "My temp is going up and down, and first I'm freezing and then I'm way too hot. I'm pretty sure I was talking in my sleep and snoring both. Believe me, you don't want me down here."

"You aren't strong enough to keep going up and down the stairs. It's a fact."

"I'm going back up." John sat up quickly.

Much too quickly, as it turned out; Sherlock could see the blood leave John's face as his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted right back onto the couch.

"Somehow," he said conversationally to his friend's unconscious form, "I think I will be winning this argument, John."


	2. The Most Interesting Thing Happening

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Two: The Most Interesting Thing Happening**

_Mmm…. Lying down, somewhere nice and cosy. A blanket on top. But what's this drippy cool thing on my forehead? And why is someone talking to me?_

"John?" A brief touch on his shoulder.

"Go 'way." John batted feebly at whatever – or whoever – was touching him. "I'm sleeping."

Amusement tinged the response. "You can call it that if you'd like, but I would usually refer to it as fainting."

John's eyes flew open. He was indeed stretched out flat, but on the sofa rather than his own bed. Someone, presumably Sherlock, had placed a blanket on top of him, and there was a cool wet flannel on his forehead. And Sherlock himself was seated on the low table, managing somehow to look both concerned and smug at the same time.

"You tried to sit up too fast, and you fainted," added Sherlock helpfully. "Obviously this makes a stronger case for my argument that you should sleep downstairs for now."

"Ugh." Moving much more slowly this time, John sat up and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. The room spun slightly and his vision tunnelled briefly, but he stayed conscious. "Maybe you're right." _I don't think I could even walk by myself, at the moment._ He licked dry, cracked lips. "More water?" he asked hopefully.

Sherlock bounced up to fetch it, and John watched him with a touch of fondness. With no case currently on his plate, his flat-mate clearly found John's illness to be the most interesting thing happening. _As long as there's no new case, he'll probably take pretty good care of me,_ he realized.

A couple of glasses of water, some antipyretics, an extra blanket more, and John felt like he could sleep again. He firmly refused Sherlock's offer to shift him into the detective's own bedroom, however.

"The sofa's fine, and I'm close to the bathroom this way." John tried to smile. "You need to sleep, too. You haven't had much the last few nights, and the last thing we need is you coming down with this same thing. I hope you've been washing your hands well after having anything to do with me."

Sherlock waved airily. "I'm never ill, you know that."

"Hold that thought."

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The next two days passed in a painful routine of short naps, agonizing trips to the bathroom, and attempts to eat and drink. He didn't faint again, probably because he worked hard to drink enough fluid and also because the volume of the diarrhoea was slowing down finally. He limited his food intake to small nibbles of toast, as anything substantial resulting in cramping and an alarmingly fast trip through his gut.

Sherlock stuck around the whole time, amazingly enough. Even more impressively, he kept quiet. He conversed with John or watched telly with him when he was awake, and left him alone while he napped. He didn't seem to be sleeping much, but then he had always been one to keep erratic hours. Several times, he got out his violin and played softly… lovely tuneful pieces that John found extremely soothing.

Sometime late Wednesday evening – the illness had started on Monday – John rose unsteadily from the sofa to make yet another trip down the hall… and gasped from the sudden steady pain in his legs.

He sat back down again abruptly, and tried to massage his calf muscles. "Jesus, that hurts," he mumbled.

"Your tone of voice implies that this is a new pain, not the abdominal cramps you've been experiencing."

"My legs." He stretched the muscles cautiously. "Sherlock, I think I'm going to have to ask you to go to the store. I need electrolytes; I'm getting calf cramps." The pain was beginning to dissipate. "Some sports drink would work or even some orange juice. Tea and water and toast don't have enough potassium in them. Or enough sodium, for that matter."

He was gratified to see Sherlock stand up and start putting on his coat and scarf. " And grab some crisps, too. Something salty. And maybe some broth." He staggered to his feet and headed back toward his original destination. "And you'd probably better pick up some more toilet paper as well."


	3. The Soul of Quiet and Discretion

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Three: The Soul of Quiet and Discretion**

When Sherlock returned about 30 minutes later, John was either still in the bathroom or back in it again. He unloaded his food and beverage purchases in the kitchen, placing the juice and sports drinks in the fridge to chill. He stuck the package of toilet paper in the hall outside the bathroom door so it wouldn't be forgotten.

About ten minutes later, the door opened and John came out, looking as pasty and ill as he had right before he'd fainted. Sherlock watched him navigate slowly back to the sofa, wondering if he should try to help. While he stood uncertainly nearby, John collapsed back down and groaned.

"I have your sports drink, and your orange juice. In the fridge. Would you like some, now?"

John nodded. "Let's start with the juice. And my laptop."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but fetched the juice and the laptop without comment and sat back down in the red armchair.

"Ah, that's good." John guzzled the orange juice down quickly. "That's what I needed." He put down the empty glass and opened his laptop. Sherlock craned his neck slightly to get a better look at the screen; John pointedly shifted it away and glared at him.

"Something's happened," observed Sherlock. "You haven't touched your computer since this started, but suddenly you wanted it right away. You look like you'd rather be asleep, so I don't think it's just because you're bored. Despite having a blog, you're enough of a private person that you aren't getting on the internet to tell everyone just how sick you are.

"You could be sending an email to the surgery to update them on when you'll be back, but you've only typed a couple of words and instead you're reading. Therefore, I think you're looking for information. You've been too sick to do much other than sleep, so the logical conclusion is that something has happened to make you read up on what's wrong with you. You've just come out of the bathroom, so whatever has happened to send you on this information quest is somehow related to—"

"Sherlock!" The warning tone in John's voice came through clearly, even with the weakness.

"…to the fact that you were just in there and that you look worse than ever now, even more pale and sick. It could be that you've started vomiting, but I didn't hear anything that sounded like that, and you drank that big glass of juice like a man who didn't have any nausea. It could be that the diarrhoea has gotten so bad that you are now experiencing transient incontinence, but you didn't run the shower or go back upstairs for –"

"SHERLOCK! That's enough, damn it."

"—for fresh clothes, so that's not it. You look worried, anyway, rather than embarrassed." He stopped, as the expression on John's face was growing dangerous.

John shook his head. "It's a good thing you aren't normally taking care of sick people. They'd kill you. Don't you ever have any tact, at all?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Not really," he answered honestly.

"Look." John shut the laptop. "If I tell you, will you shut up and let me rest?"

"I shall be the soul of quiet and discretion."

"I seriously doubt that." John sighed. "Okay, the problem is that this isn't behaving just like a simple viral gastroenteritis any more. I'm sicker than I should be, and I'm starting to see blood. Mixed in."

"Oh. That's … not good, is it?"

"No. And I've got … well, in medicine, we call it tenesmus. It's basically a prolonged rectal spasm. Imagine feeling like you have to go, very badly, but nothing's really there. For ten, fifteen minutes at a time."

Sherlock studied his friend's face, which now looked rather grey instead of pale. "That's why you've been in there for so long."

"Yeah. I've read about it, and had patients tell me about it, but believe me, the experience is worse than I ever would have imagined," John agreed fervently.

"What do you think you have, then?"

"I'm not sure." John stared off into space. "I've had a fever on and off all along, and I've no history of intestinal problems like ulcerative colitis. So an infection is still the most likely suspect. But this is no kiddie virus. This is more likely to be bacterial. Salmonella, Shigella, certain strains of E. coli, Campylobacter… those can all do this. But…"

"But?" Sherlock made sure to note the string of bacterial culprits, so as to look them up later when John was asleep.

"But where would I pick up one of those? It's not like I've been preparing raw meat or poultry or eating out at any questionable restaurants. With that latest case, I hardly had much time to eat at all. This isn't something you get just from leaving the milk out too long or from shaking hands with sick people." He shook his head. "We did have that bang-up dinner at the Indian place, what's its name… but you ate everything I did, and you're fine."

_Poultry?_ Sherlock felt a faint twinge of recognition, then suppressed it. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing, tonight. I'm going to stay hydrated and get some sleep." He set the laptop on the table wearily. "Then tomorrow I'll call the surgery, see Sarah or one of the other docs there, and we'll do some tests." He laid back down on the sofa. "Depending on what this is, I could be fine in a few days, or I could get pretty sick."

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "How sick?"

"Some of these infections can have some strange effects on the rest of the body. Anaemia, low platelets, even kidney failure. Things like that." He looked up at Sherlock. "Don't worry. Those things are very rare when healthy adults are infected. The most important things now are rest and fluids." He smiled faintly. "And no food prep for me… you'll have to keep nurse-maiding me for a while, I'm afraid."

Sherlock nodded earnestly. "You're a fairly good patient for a doctor, John; I think I can manage."


	4. Mutually Understood Medical Terms

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Four: Mutually Understood Medical Terms**

John made a point of waking up early the next morning, even after a restless, miserable night, and called the staff phone number at the surgery as soon as he thought someone would be there. He left a message for Sarah, and she called him back promptly.

"John," she started off, "it's okay for you to be out for a long as you need, you know; we're back to full strength here with Amy back from maternity leave. She just started on Monday."

"Oh, good." He wiped at his sweating forehead; his fever was on its way down and he felt disgustingly sticky and hot. "That's really good news, because it might be a while before I'm well enough to work."

Something in his voice must have alerted her. "Oh? What's going on, John?"

Briefly, he gave her an update on his symptoms. It was slightly less embarrassing than discussing the problem with Sherlock, as he could take refuge in mutually understood medical terms such as 'hematochezia' and 'tenesmus', but only slightly. They'd managed to maintain an easy friendship and collegial relationship after breaking up from their brief romance, but it was still a strange concept to be discussing such intimate symptoms with a woman he'd once hoped to win over.

"So," he finished up, "I guess I'd better send off a specimen for testing. I don't think you are going to want me around there seeing patients until we know what I have, even if I start feeling better soon. Can I stop by and get the collection kit, and will you or someone else there order the tests?"

"No, John… come in and be seen properly." Her answer was firm. "You know these kind of infections can be dangerous. Let me at least take a look at you and check your vitals, and I think we should check some blood work as well."

He sighed. He hadn't really gotten around to finding a regular doctor of his own, except for the army doctors that had overseen his recovery, and he preferred Sarah's gentle familiarity to any of them. "You're the boss."

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The outing to the surgery proved to be exhausting, as it was the most activity John had experienced for days. True to her word, Sarah had insisted on hearing all the details and performing a brief exam, then had one of the techs draw blood for a blood count and basic chemistries. Finally, she handed him the stool sample collection kit, and he sighed deeply.

"I know," she said sympathetically. "It's a terrible thing to ask a sick person to do, really. But you were right to call, John; if nothing else, it's important to figure this out for public health reasons. You say Sherlock is just fine?"

He took the kit with some distaste. "Well, he's never precisely normal, but he's not having any of the same symptoms." A warning cramp passed through his gut. "If you don't mind, I think I'll just deal with this here rather than take it home and have to bring it all back later." He grimaced and rubbed his aching belly. "And it would really be better to not have Sherlock and a stool sample collection kit under the same roof."

Her light laugh followed him down the corridor as he first walked and then sprinted for the bathroom to carry out the revolting task.

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He was napping on the sofa again, trying to digest a light lunch of tinned tomato soup, when Sarah rang his mobile.

"Blood work looks fine, John. You're a bit anaemic, though; make sure you get some iron into you once you're feeling better."

"Will do." He tried to sound better than he felt. "I've just promoted myself to soup and toast, so maybe it'll be a nice rare steak by the end of the week."

"The cultures, the O&P and the C. diff toxin assay will take a few days. You were positive for fecal leucocytes, though, which isn't surprising."

"No, not really." He could already feel the tomato soup starting to rumble through his gut.

"You know the drill. Keep yourself hydrated, good hand-washing, and no seeing patients until your symptoms are all resolved."

"Thanks, Sarah."

"No problem. I'll call when the cultures come back."


	5. Thawing Something Inside His Heart

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Five: Thawing Something Inside His Heart**

Sherlock walked quietly into the flat. Doing so on a regular basis was a new skill for him, but one that he was trying to cultivate since John had gotten so ill. John was still sleeping a lot, but he'd been gone – off to the surgery for his appointment – when Sherlock got up that morning, which did seem to be a good sign.

He poked around the kitchen, checked the supplies of clear liquids and tinned soups, and decided that he would most likely need to go to the store tomorrow. Then he walked into the sitting room to see how his 'patient' was doing.

John was sound asleep on the sofa, curled up on his side and drooling slightly into his pillow. Studying him with a slight smile on his face, Sherlock noticed anew how very narrow the sofa really was if one was trying to sleep on it… especially for someone like John, who actually had a normal build rather than being wraith-thin like his flatmate.

He leaned over John and began to remove the back cushions of the sofa, sliding them out slowly so as not to wake his friend. He piled them on the floor as he extracted them, then was treated to the sight of John flopping over onto his back and actually stretching slightly, looking … comfortable.

Sherlock held his breath, thinking that he'd woken John, but soon the unmistakable sound of snoring began to emanate from the sofa. He grinned, adjusted the blanket a little higher around his friend's shoulders, and slipped quietly off to his armchair to read.

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After about another twenty-four hours of sheer misery, John seemed to finally be making some improvement. He asked Sherlock (almost shyly) for some scrambled eggs to eat; Sherlock was relieved to be asked for something that was actually in his narrow repertoire of cooked dishes and managed to produce a plate of rather tasty-looking eggs. He watched John eat them and was pleased to see that some colour was beginning to return to his flatmate's face.

John stayed awake all the rest of that day, and even watched a movie with Sherlock that evening without having to make any mad dashes to the toilet. And that night, he finally relocated upstairs to his own bedroom.

Sherlock watched him climb up the stairs, pillow clutched to his side, and tried to analyze his feelings. He was happy that John was starting to get over his illness, but he admitted to himself that he had enjoyed having him live downstairs full-time for a few days. And having the chance to take care of John, in such a hands-on and practical way, had thawed something inside his heart that felt like it had been frozen for a very long time.

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The weekend felt almost normal. John was back to making tea and simple food for himself, though not for Sherlock. He actually apologized for it, which Sherlock ignored; after all, he had survived on his own for years without John.

John worked on his blog, tidied up the flat a bit (albeit a bit more slowly than usual) and even went for short walks both Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Sherlock heard him leaving a voice-mail message for Sarah saying that he'd probably be ready and available to work, if needed, by Tuesday.

Sunday evening, Sherlock looked over at his friend. John was no longer just slouching around in pyjamas, he noticed, but dressed in his usual comfortable attire of jeans and jumper.

"John?"

"Mmm?" John continued to peck away at the keyboard.

"Hungry at all?"

John stopped and appeared to consider the issue. "Yes, actually."

"Up to going out for a real dinner?"

"What do you think?" John looked down at his abdomen, apparently addressing it. "Could you digest a real meal and not make me regret it?" He looked up again. "The answer appears to be 'yes'. But let's stick close to home. And make sure that their bathroom's not out of order." He smiled at Sherlock, the first real smile to grace his honest face in days, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin back in return.


	6. The Way Our Bodies Function

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience,Part Six: The Way Our Bodies Function**

The dinner out marked the next step in John's recovery. He was able to eat a hearty plate of pasta and plenty of bread, and even sipped at a glass of red wine. He enjoyed the food and the outing thoroughly; it felt like one of their post-case dinners, albeit delayed by a few days.

He slept well that night despite the heavy meal, his sleep uninterrupted by the dreaded cramping. And he felt well enough the next day to go for a long walk in the park to clear all of the remaining cobwebs out of his brain.

_We never appreciate our health, except when we don't have it. We take it for granted, the way our bodies function at our command._ It was true… even though his illness hadn't been particularly dangerous, it had been miserable. He'd been robbed of the simple pleasures of food, beverages, sleep, and exercise. It felt wonderful to be enjoying those things again.

He was a block away from the flat when his mobile rang. It was Sarah again.

"John, how are you feeling?"

"Almost normal now. I take it the rest of the tests didn't show anything?"

"Well, actually, John… not exactly. You've got campylobacteriosis."

He stopped walking. "Really? Where the hell did I get that?"

There was amusement in her voice. "I'm sure I don't know. But you know that this means one of the public health nurses will be calling you to try to trace the source. So better start working on your recall of everything you've eaten and everywhere you've been for the last week or two."

"Right. Well, if it's a mystery, maybe I should turn Sherlock loose on it. He can be a consulting epidemiologist."

"Do you really think that's a good idea, John?"

"No… not really."

"Anyway… you're better, though? No more symptoms?"

He continued toward the flat. "I'd say I'm about 90% of my usual self."

"Great. Well, as you know, this doesn't need any treatment. You seem to have escaped any of the usual acute complications, so just keep taking good care of yourself. Oh, and Ned wants a couple of days off to go visit his mum in Cornwall; are you up to coming in on Thursday and Friday?"

"Sure, it'll do me good. I'll be there."

He walked up the stairs to the flat, shaking his head. Campylobacter had been one of the possible organisms he'd considered once the blood had appeared. He'd dealt with it with soldiers in Afghanistan, as it was fairly common in third world countries. He knew it was associated with undercooked meats and poultry, raw milk, and farm animals. But how would a reasonably fastidious doctor, who rarely if ever handled raw meats or chicken and tended to live off pasta, become infected while living in Central London? He shook his head, then literally and figuratively shrugged off the problem. He wasn't Sherlock, to worry at a mystery like a dog with a bone. He was well again, and who really cared where it had come from?


	7. A Mostly Expressionless Mask

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Seven: A Mostly Expressionless Mask**

Sherlock looked up from his microscope when John's mobile rang. The experiment involving a mild electrical current and the muscles of the chicken foot was proving difficult – the nerves were so tiny and hard to work with, and the muscle far more gristly and scanty that he'd expected. He also suspected that the woman in Chinatown who'd sold him the feet hadn't been entirely truthful about whether or not they had been previously frozen; there was a mushiness to the texture that belied her story. He wasn't having any more success than he had had a couple of weeks ago with the chicken wings from the grocery store, which had at least been fresh when he bought them. In light of that, peeking over the microscope and eavesdropping on John's private phone conversation sounded like a splendid idea.

"No, that's all right, I was expecting to hear from you." Polite and patient as always.

"Right," said John after a substantial pause. "I've been thinking about that since I got the lab results yesterday, and honestly, I think it's going to be a tough nut to crack. But fire away."

A brief pause. "No, can't say that I remember doing anything like that. I cook a bit, but I keep erratic hours so it's usually simple stuff without meat."

Sherlock's brain buzzed busily. This must be about John's recent illness. Was it Sarah? _No, that's not his 'Sarah' voice; he's being friendly and polite but this is someone he doesn't know. A specialist? Was John still sick somehow, and in need of specialist consultation?_ That seemed unlikely; he'd go and see a specialist in his or her office.

"No, never, only pasteurized," was John's next comment, accompanied by a laugh. "Louis Pasteur knew what he was talking about! I stay away from raw milk. Eggs? Yes, but cooked thoroughly."

If John had been looking toward the kitchen, he would have seen Sherlock's face show dawning comprehension. _Ah! Someone calling about his infection. They're asking what he's been doing, and what he's been eating. But he never told me that his lab tests showed anything. He just got better and left me thinking he was fine. _He clapped his eyes back on his microscope as he saw John's bright, slightly nervous gaze flicker over to him.

"Yes… well, let's see. Several of those days I bought a sandwich at the café downstairs from me and took it with me to work, but I always kept them well refrigerated." Pause. "Speedy's Café. No, I've eaten there lots of times. Other than that…I think there were a couple of times that I bought a pastry and coffee at the tube station, but those would be pretty low-risk. Pre-wrapped pastries, I mean. And then three days before I got sick, I did have Indian food at the India Palace. Yes… that one, you're very good, do you have a map of my neighbourhood or something?" John was laughing, and it sounded like the laugh he used on susceptible women. "Anyway, my flat-mate was with me and he ate all of the same dishes, and he's fine. Well, not precisely normal, but he never got sick." More laughter; John seemed to be enjoying himself now.

"No, that's about it. No, definitely no contact with farm animals. I can't remember the last time I was out of London. Chickens? I don't think my landlady would approve of keeping chickens out back."

"All right, thanks for calling. Should I call you if I think of any connection? Wait, let me write that down… Dana. Okay, got it, and I'll be sure to let you know if I think of something."

Sherlock waited a few heartbeats after John rang off. "I see you got her number."

John blew out his breath in a rude noise. "Public health nurse, Sherlock. Just doing her job."

"And doing it very well, apparently," Sherlock murmured. "I'm surprised you didn't invite her around for tea. She could inspect our kitchen for suspicious bacteria." He felt obscurely annoyed that this Dana, whoever she was, knew what John had been suffering from while he himself was reduced to eavesdropping.

"Don't be a prat, Sherlock. It's a public health issue. When someone is positive for a reportable illness, it's… well, it's reported," he finished lamely. "Then people like Dana try to figure out if it's an isolated incident or part of an outbreak. If I'd gotten my infection from a restaurant, for example, they would be able to go inspect the restaurant and talk to the employees."

"Ah, yes, your infection. Which would be, what, exactly?"

John shot him an irritated look. "And you need to know, why, exactly?"

Sherlock tried to paste his best 'innocent' look on his face. "John, I'm your flat-mate. I have more contact with you than anyone else, especially considering the wasteland that is your dating life lately. And I did, in a manner of speaking, help nurse you back to health. Since I exposed myself to a certain amount of risk in taking care of you, am I not entitled to know what you had? What if I get sick next?"

He felt very slightly guilty when John shook his head and gave him an apologetic smile. "You're right, of course… you were exposed by taking care of me, and it's not like there's anything particularly embarrassing about the infection itself." John opened up his laptop. "It's one of the infections that I considered as a possibility. Campylobacter. Fairly common in Third World countries and in people who are around farm animals, but unusual in the city except as part of food-service-related outbreaks. Or, in the case of someone handling raw meat or poultry without proper precautions. It's also associated with raw milk, and certain cheeses made with raw milk." He clicked a few keys. "I've read up on it, and seriously scratched my head about it, but I've really no idea where I got it. I can't think of any risk factors."

Sherlock carefully schooled his features into a mostly expressionless mask, and dropped his eyes back to his microscope. "Ah. Well, I'm feeling fine, and I was careful to wash my hands when I came anywhere near you. So I doubt I'm at risk."

While his eyes stared fixedly at the chicken foot that he was still trying to manipulate with the tiny tools, he saw a different picture in his mind's eye.

_Chicken wings, discarded from my first try at this. Sitting carelessly in a bowl of room-temperature water in the sink that held a few items waiting to be washed… including John's favourite mug._

Had he actually washed the dishes in the sink after finally fishing out the wings? He'd waited to throw them out until he had cleaned up his tools and the microscope; he'd wanted to take the wings straight out to the bins so they wouldn't smell up the kitchen. For all that John was forever accusing him of leaving unsuitable objects in the fridge, Sherlock had an extremely sensitive nose and hated the smell of anything rotting. So he'd chucked them in the sink for a while to wait. He'd definitely thrown them out, though, he remembered that clearly.

But then he'd come back inside, and he'd had that text from Lestrade…_ did I ever wash those dishes? John's mug, at least? Or did it just sit in the sink, in a bowl of warmish water, just breeding up bacteria by the millions, just waiting for him to be careless enough to grab it up and use it without washing it properly?_

He gulped slightly. Whatever had happened, John was fine now. He'd been so miserable, so uncomfortable for a few days… but there seemed to be no real harm done. If the mistreated chicken wings had really been the infection source, then no one else was at risk, save the alley cats who might have plundered the bins. And Sherlock himself, of course, but surely he was well past the incubation period by now.

Focusing his gaze back on the chicken feet, he found himself suddenly repulsed by them and sickened by his own endless experiments. He turned off the microscope and swept the whole mess of mangled feet into the kitchen trash, heedless of the potential smell. Then he washed his hands, and his instruments, and the pertinent parts of the microscope very, very carefully.


	8. A Thready Sense of Panic

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Eight: A Thready Sense of Panic**

_About three weeks later…_

John dragged himself wearily up the stairs to the flat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so utterly exhausted just after a long day at the surgery. He'd been increasingly tired for the last few days, but today the fatigue had really hit him hard for some reason. Of course, as he reminded himself, not every day at the surgery was the same. There were days when his schedule seemed to mostly contain happy, easy-going patients that he'd actually met before – always a luxury for a part-time locum tenens – and then there were days like today.

He'd known it was going to be a tough one when he looked at his list of scheduled appointments and seen the reasons that each patient was coming in. Headaches, back pain, fatigue, chronic abdominal pain… a good half of his schedule had been things like that. A couple of the back pain patients had alerts on their charts about being cautious with narcotic prescriptions due to suspected drug-seeking behaviour. The headache and abdominal pain patients had all been seen previously by their regular doctors but had chosen today to be particularly insistent on an appointment to discuss their problem with someone, anyone. Even the simpler coughs and sore throats were difficult today; everyone wanted a prescription for something. Preferably an antibiotic or a nice powerful narcotic cough syrup. John had gone through his 'it's just a virus, you'll be fine' speech so many times he felt sure he would be reciting it in his sleep tonight.

There was no sign of Sherlock in the flat. He'd sent John a text earlier about a new case from Lestrade, although it sounded like he didn't expect it to be one that would involve them very much... just a brief consultation. John flicked on the switch on the electric teakettle and slumped against the counter, favourite mug in hand with teabag at the ready, waiting for it to boil.

Maybe it was time for him to start slowing down a bit. His work with Sherlock, always unpredictable in its hours, was taking up more and more of his time. He needed to still perform some formal work as a physician in order to keep his licence active, but not as many hours as he'd been putting in. He felt a chronic, low-grade guilt to Sarah both for their ruined romance and for all of the times that he'd been unavailable to work or had come to work short on sleep or severely distracted. That guilt tended to make him say 'yes' to every shift that she offered him, above and beyond the minimum that he needed to stay a practicing physician.

He poured the boiling water over the teabag, somewhat shakily. _Christ, I'm so tired I can barely lift the kettle. Definitely an early bedtime tonight._

Leaving his cup of tea on the counter to steep for a while, he pulled back one of the kitchen chairs and sat down at the table rather heavily. He thumbed listlessly through one of his medical journals, his thoughts focused on his internal monologue rather than the article on incision and drainage of skin abscesses that he was trying to read.

He'd tried to take care of himself while recovering from his intestinal infection, but his good intentions had flown away as soon as Sherlock was offered a really interesting case involving a drug smuggling ring and what appeared to be a couple of accidental murders. The usual nonsense of late hours and poor eating habits had ensued, but despite that, he'd felt okay until the last few days.

_Sarah did say I was anaemic,_ he remembered guiltily. He'd never started the iron supplements as instructed. _Maybe I need to do that after all, or at least change my diet. Can't have Dr. John Watson, army doctor, fainting away like a teenage girl._

He sighed, retrieved his now-perfect tea, and added milk. Sugar, too, since he was feeling so droopy, and walked into the sitting room on tired, rubbery legs. Just as he was almost in front of his armchair, his left great toe seemed to catch on something… and down he went, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Cursing roundly, he lay there for a moment, sprawled on his stomach. He thought briefly how grateful he was that Sherlock hadn't been there to see his pratfall, then tiredly started to get up. Tea was spattered everywhere… carpet, chair, table, and all over himself. It hadn't been hot enough to burn at this point but was going to be a sticky, disastrous mess to clean up, thanks to the sugar. He got into a kneeling position and tried to rise.

_Oh, come on, you're not _that _tired. _But his body stubbornly refused to obey. Without thinking about it, he put one hand on his thigh to help push himself up, grabbing his armchair with his other hand to steady himself.

And stopped, dead in his tracks, as he straightened up.

_Weakness. I'm weak, literally. That was a positive Gower's sign, when the patient with muscular weakness has to use his hands to push against his thighs in order to stand up._

Fighting against a thready sense of panic in his chest, he forced himself to pick up his mug (undamaged) and go to the kitchen for a dishtowel to mop up the tea as best he could. He used his feet to manoeuvre the cloth around the floor so that he didn't end up sitting or kneeling again. Finally he returned the cloth to the kitchen and sat down in his chair to think for a few minutes.

Then he got up again, and slowly, with great effort, climbed the stairs to his bedroom.


	9. Punched in the Stomach

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Nine: Punched In The Stomach**

Sherlock walked in to the unusual sight of his flat-mate just sitting there in his armchair, with no tea, book, or magazine in front of him. John's laptop was in sight on the table, but John himself seemed to be occupied in whacking himself just below one of his knees with a rubber hammer.

He stopped in front of John, staring curiously.

"Isn't it supposed to jump when you do that? Whenever you – or any other doctor – hits me there, my leg jumps."

John didn't answer him, didn't even acknowledge him, but re-crossed his legs and started tapping the other knee. Sherlock frowned, and looked more closely.

_John looks exhausted, and worried. There was an empty mug in the kitchen and there are blotches on the floor, and I smell tea. So, he made tea, but he spilled it somehow. I can see it splashed all over him, even in his hair, so it must have been a spectacular event. Usually he putters around after work, putting things away and straightening up, but almost everything looks the same as it did this morning._

"John?"

No answer from John. No answer from the leg, either, which stubbornly refused to leap up as the rubber hammer struck just below the patella.

"John, are you all right?"

A shudder seemed to pass through John's frame, and he looked up and seemed to actually _see_ Sherlock. He could see fear in those eyes, creeping around John's usually calm façade.

"No," he answered slowly. "No… Sherlock, I'm afraid I'm not all right."

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Sherlock shook his head. "Wait… I don't understand," Just saying those words was painful. "If you really think you have this, shouldn't we get you to the hospital? Now?"

John smiled briefly, a quick, tense expression that didn't reach his eyes and faded quickly. "Not everyone with Guillain-Barre has to be rushed off to the hospital. I'm stable enough to wait until tomorrow. Going in now will just mean hanging about A&E for hours. If I just go see Sarah tomorrow, she or one of the others can call a neurologist and make the arrangements."

"That … sounds logical," answered Sherlock slowly. "This is treatable, right? That's what you said?" He was having a difficult time tracking exactly what John had said over the last few minutes, which was very unusual for him.

Presumably the rising sense of panic that he was feeling had something to do with his difficulty in concentration. He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat as he closed his eyes and tried to go back and mentally process what John had told him.

_Probable Guillain-Barre syndrome._

_Rapidly progressive peripheral neuropathy._

_Weakness, lack of deep tendon reflexes, clumsiness._

_Untreated, can lead to extreme debilitation, respiratory failure._

_Rare but well-known late complication of campylobacteriosis._

That last bit made him feel as if he'd just been punched in the stomach. _Don't think about that now, _he told himself sternly. _John's going to need your help, and you need to be thinking clearly… not distracted by what might have caused this._

"Yes, very." John was clearly doing his best to be cheerful. "It's a type of autoimmune disorder, with the body attacking part of the membrane that surrounds the nerves. There are good treatments now, IVIG and plasmapheresis… but that's getting ahead of the game. First I'll need to see a neurologist and have the diagnosis confirmed, then they'll probably admit me for further tests and treatment. Most people recover completely nowadays."

Sherlock forced himself to nod reassuringly. "All right. So what do you need for tonight?"

"Sleep, mostly. I'm exhausted," admitted John. "Believe me, I'll rest better here than I will at the hospital. At least for tonight."

"Food?"

John shook his head. "I had a bite when I got home. I wasn't really hungry anyway. Just too bloody tired. No, now I just want to sleep." He rubbed at his upper lip. "Sherlock, could you…"

"What?" Sherlock bounced up, eager to do _something._

John looked embarrassed. "Could you pop up to my room and get a few things for me? I think I am going to have to sleep on the sofa. I made it up there once to get my reflex hammer, but I'd rather not tackle the stairs again."

The lump in Sherlock's throat had made an unwelcome reappearance. "Of course. Pyjamas and dressing gown coming up. Anything else?"

"There's a book on my nightstand that I was reading, so maybe that, too."

Sherlock loped quickly up the stairs to John's bedroom. The pyjamas in question were folded carefully under John's pillow, and the dressing gown draped over a wooden chair. He gathered them up and added the book (Steinbeck's East of Eden, curious) and considered grabbing the pillow as well, remembering how John had seemed to appreciate having his own pillow while he was camped out on the sofa during his gastrointestinal illness.

_He'll need bedding, too. _He looked at the heavy duvet on the bed and decided that he wouldn't be able to carry everything down in one trip. Then he was struck by another idea. _Of course… how silly of me._ He headed back downstairs with the items John had requested, and stopped to hang the pyjamas and dressing gown on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

John was standing in the sitting room, one hand casually on the arm of the chair. Sherlock would have bet money that half the reason John had sent him out of the room was so that he could rise from the chair unobserved.

He set the book down on the table. "Pyjamas are in the bathroom. Need any help getting in there?" He tried to keep his voice casual.

"No, I can manage."

Sherlock tried to be unobtrusive as he watched John walk carefully across the room and down the corridor to the bathroom. He seemed steady enough, but his pace was very slow and deliberate. He walked without much bending at the hips or the knees, and his toes barely cleared the floor with each step. _No wonder he tripped and spilled tea everywhere… he can barely get his feet off of the floor._

Once John was safely in the bathroom, Sherlock headed for his own room and looked around it. He didn't usually spend much time in here, so it was much tidier than the rest of the downstairs. He picked up a few questionable items and straightened the blankets and fluffed up the pillows, then nodded to himself in satisfaction.


	10. I've Got Two Hands

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Ten: "I've Got Two Hands"**

John managed to use the toilet, change into pyjamas, and brush his teeth without any mishaps. _I wonder how much longer I'll be able to say that?_ He firmly squelched the thought. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This is frightening but treatable. Not nearly as bad as a gunshot wound. Stop worrying about your dignity… God knows you don't have much left after recuperating at an army hospital._

He wasn't too surprised to see Sherlock hovering in the corridor outside the bathroom.

"I forgot to ask, Sherlock, could you grab me a blanket and pillow for the sofa?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You won't need them. You'll be sleeping in my room, John."

John looked at his friend's earnest and worried face, and read the concern behind the high-handed manner. "I see. Any particular reason?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You need a comfortable bed, not the lumpy sofa. And… someone should be with you, in case you need help. In case you get worse during the night."

_He really is worried. _"Sherlock," he asked gently. "Are you afraid that I'll stop breathing in my sleep?"

From the look on his friend's face, and the slight twitch that accompanied the change in his expression, he'd scored a hit. "You did say that respiratory involvement is common. That approximately 30 percent of cases require some kind of breathing support."

"Yes, but…" John sagged a little against the wall. "Look, I actually happen to agree with you. I'm not in a big hurry to be alone tonight; this all has me a little freaked out too. I'm grateful for the invitation, frankly. But could we discuss this sitting down?" _Or lying down?_

He watched Sherlock's facial expression change yet again, this time to chagrin. "Of course." He let Sherlock open the door to his bedroom, then made his careful way inside with his new, shuffling gait. Sherlock followed him in, not quite hovering, as John took off his dressing gown and tossed it onto a chair.

John made a point of flipping back the bedclothes (Sherlock really had lovely bedding: expensive sheets and a thick down duvet) himself and climbing in without assistance, but it wasn't easy. He had to flop himself onto the bed and basically roll over and squirm around until he was finally in a normal sleeping position. The entire time, he could feel his flat-mate's worried gaze upon him.

"There," he said, a little breathlessly. "Much better. Now, about the breathing thing…"

Sherlock perched uncertainly on the bed next to him. "Do you need to be propped up or anything? I can get more pillows."

"No, I'm fine. This is lovely, really." And it was… now that he was finally lying down, he could feel anew how very fatigued he was. Sleep would claim him quickly, despite his worries about his own condition. He'd be lucky to stay awake long enough to give Sherlock a little more explanation.

"I'm not going to stop breathing in my sleep, Sherlock." He tried to get his face to offer up a tired smile, but wasn't sure if he had succeeded. "Even if my nerves are wonky right now, even if my muscles feel weak… my brain is functioning just fine. If I'm not getting enough oxygen to my brain all of a sudden, I'll wake up. I'll know something's wrong. It's called air hunger, and it's supposed to be a very distressing feeling. Believe me, if anything like that happens, I'll wake you up."

Sherlock regarded him steadily. "What if you can't move?" It was uttered very quietly.

"I'm not going to become that weak, that quickly. I'll be able to shout, or moan, or grab your arm, or preferably kick you." That produced a faint smile. "Don't stay awake all night watching me breathe, Sherlock, please." He took a deep breath. "I am going to need your help tomorrow, so you need to sleep."

"All right," he said slowly. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

John had almost drifted off when he heard Sherlock come back into the bedroom. He heard the rustling sounds that were undoubtedly produced by Sherlock changing into pyjamas, then saw the bedside lamp turn on and the overhead light turn out. He felt the bed move slightly as his friend climbed into it.

"I think I'll leave the lamp on, John," he heard softly. "Is that going to keep you awake? I do think it's prudent to have some light, in case you do have any difficulties."

"Fine," John murmured drowsily. With an effort, he rolled over so that he was facing the middle of the bed, and Sherlock, who was sitting up with a book on his lap. Their eyes met, and John could read the fear that was undoubtedly reflected on his own face, and so he reached out his hand on impulse.

Sherlock's hand, moving toward him at almost the same instant, closed around his… long, warm fingers, squeezing firmly with all of the strength that his own body lacked. The touch was immensely comforting.

"You're going to find it hard to turn the pages like that," quipped John, trying desperately to bring a smile to that unhappy face.

"I've got two hands." There was a slight tremor in Sherlock's voice. "I can spare one of them for you."

John felt his throat tighten. Sherlock could be such a complete arse most of the time, enough to make John want to poison his coffee and toss his violin out of the window. He waltzed through life insulting and offending friends and strangers alike, leaving behind hurt feelings in his wake and never offering up any evidence that he had any empathy at all. And then every once in a while, he would do or say something that almost brought tears to John's eyes.

It was always that way with Sherlock, he reflected. All or nothing. Complete prat, or the best friend anyone could ever want.

He squeezed back as well as he could. "Will you promise to sleep? At some point?"

"Will you promise to wake me if you feel worse?" Again, the slight shake in the voice, as if it were heavy with unshed tears.

"Of course." He could feel himself dropping off, now, the sheets and pillow seeming to suck him down into a vortex. He pulled Sherlock's hand just a little closer to him. "If it's all right with you," he heard himself murmur, as if from a long ways away, "I'll keep this for a while."

He felt a feather-light touch on his head as he tilted softly into sleep.


	11. A Better Job of Sharing

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Eleven: A Better Job Of Sharing**

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He was still loosely holding John's hand, and the first thing he did was to check that it was still warm and pink and that John was still breathing easily. Satisfied as to his friend's immediate medical condition, he rolled over and looked at his iPhone. 0713. Not too early to get up and start getting ready for what the day was going to bring.

Very carefully, and with a certain amount of reluctance, he slipped his hand out of John's and climbed out of the bed. He donned his dressing gown and left the bedroom, leaving the door fully open so that he could hear and observe John. As an afterthought, he poked his head back in and quietly stole John's phone off the nightstand.

_Check the contacts list… ah, excellent. _Despite the failure of John's romance with Sarah, they were still good friends, and he still kept her personal number on speed dial. Sherlock took a deep breath and punched the button.

"John?"

"It's Sherlock. I'm using John's phone."

"Is he all right?" Yes, there were definitely still feelings there. Sherlock skipped uncomfortably over the thought that his all-encompassing greed with regard to John's time and resources were probably the main reason that Sarah had dropped him. Clearly she was still fond of him, even if she didn't want to be his girlfriend.

"Yes… and no. Sarah, he thinks that he has Guillain-Barre Syndrome." He knew that some of his own distress and worry was leaking into his tone of voice, even though he tried to keep it out.

A brief pause, then: "How is his breathing?" _Ha. I was right to be worried about that last night._

"His colour is good and he's sleeping quietly right now, so I think that his respiratory status is all right." He hesitated a second, then plunged ahead. "I made him sleep in my room; he couldn't really make it up the stairs, and I was awake half the night watching him breathe, but I didn't see any distress."

He could hear a sigh of relief. "Sherlock… I don't know what he told you, but this is pretty serious. Did he tell you anything else?"

"Yes. Besides the weakness… he said that his deep tendon reflexes were gone."

"Shit. Sorry … Sherlock, he needs a neurologist, and a hospital. Can you bring him by the surgery this morning, so that I can confirm his own findings and get him admitted?"

"I think that was the plan. I just woke up first and thought it would be best to let you know what was happening."

"Good idea, and thanks so much for calling me." She sounded fervently grateful. "I know John. He was probably just going to sneak in the back door and casually pull me aside in the hallway about this. Bloody hell. I'm going to call one of the neurologists so that we have one standing by to see him in the hospital."

"Thank you, Sarah." Sherlock knew that he probably sounded fervently grateful himself. He wondered briefly why he and Sarah had not managed to do a better job of sharing John between them.

"Get him up, get a good breakfast into him, and make sure he packs a bag. He'll be going straight to the hospital. I don't want him to have any excuses."

"Right."

"I have my first patient at 9:30; if you can get him here by 8:45 then that would work best. But get him here, whenever you can, whatever you need to do." There was a slight shake in her voice. "At least when it comes to medical things, he'll listen to me."

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Sherlock first slipped upstairs to John's room and found an overnight bag in John's wardrobe. He had no idea what John would want to take to the hospital; it wasn't as if they would let him wear his own clothing. He settled on John's favourite terry-cloth dressing gown and slippers and made sure to gather up his mobile phone charger and laptop charger.

He stopped in his own room, added the copy of East of Eden that John had been too tired to touch last night, and checked on John's colour and breathing. Finding both to his satisfaction, he moved into the sitting room, added John's laptop to the bag, and then left it open on the sofa in case his friend came up with any other logical additions.

He painstakingly brewed a pot of strong tea, then poured a cup and took it into the bedroom to John.

"John?" He sat down on the bed, and touched his friend on the shoulder. Unbidden, the thought rose. _Perhaps it wasn't real…maybe John was just so tired last night that he thought he had this problem. Maybe he's really just fine._

"Mmm?" John's eyes flew open. He seemed momentarily startled at finding himself in the wrong bedroom. "Oh. What's up?"

"Tea. And breakfast, eventually. Does anything sound good?"

John favoured him with a tired smile. "It would be all glamorous and Victorian to say that this has all destroyed my appetite, but it hasn't. I'm starving. So anything is good. Toast? Scrambled eggs? Instant porridge?"

A little while later, Sherlock was pleased to be able to stick his head into the bedroom and announce that there was food on the table. He eyed his flat-mate quizzically. "Have you… I mean, do you think you can walk this morning?"

John slurped down the last of the tea. He did seem in better spirits this morning, less bone-weary. "Don't know. Let's operate and find out." He slid to the edge of the bed, turned himself and cautiously put his feet on the floor while Sherlock hovered nearby. Slowly, John was able to get out of bed and stand next to it, though he held on to the nightstand for support.

"Balance isn't too bad," he mused. "It's the walking itself that might be hard."

He managed to shuffle all the way to the door (which Sherlock opened) under his own power, though, and down the corridor to the bathroom without any stumbles. Sherlock retrieved the mug and poured John a second cup of tea to go with the eggs and toast, and unobtrusively pulled out the kitchen chair to assist him when he came back.

"Thanks," John said, somewhat breathlessly. "Hey, hot food. You're full of surprises."

"I can cook, at least some simple things. I just am not interested most of the time." He smiled at John, even if it felt forced. "You're just usually so much better at it."

John grinned and started in on his breakfast. Sherlock was impressed with his hearty appetite. Perhaps it was an Army thing, or even more fundamentally, a doctor thing. Eat when you can, sleep when you can, pee when you can, and overall, be practical. Whatever the reason, Sherlock felt his spirits lifting somewhat after the night's worry, as John picked the last bites off his plate and slurped yet another cup of tea.

He cleared his throat. "John… I called Sarah this morning. I thought that she deserved some warning."

John seemed to deflate a little. "Oh. Well, that's probably for the best. What did she say?"

"She's worried about you. She told me to feed you, get you packed up, and get you down to the surgery as soon as possible. She's calling a neurologist."

"Right." John stared at his empty mug for a moment, then seemed to come back to the present. "Well, we'll just have to do our best."

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To Sherlock's relief, John was able to – albeit with caution – get himself showered and dressed, even if Sherlock had to go upstairs to fetch clothing for him. John looked in the overnight bag, added a few items, then closed it up… only to have Sherlock snatch it away from him.

"You're going to have enough trouble just getting down the stairs, John. Be realistic."

The trip downstairs did prove challenging. John made it down by hanging onto the railing and only moving one foot at a time. By the time they both emerged onto the sidewalk, his forehead was liberally drenched in sweat, and it sounded as if he was swearing softly under his breath.

The cab ride to the surgery was silent. John stared out the window; his relative cheerfulness of breakfast-time seeming to have vanished in the light of the reality of his physical frailty. When they arrived, Sherlock helped him out and left him leaning against a wall with the overnight bag before turning back to pay the cabbie.

When he'd finished with the cabbie and returned to John, he saw that John had his hands over his face. He picked up the bag and moved closer.

"John, are you all right?" He touched his friend's shoulder uncertainly.

"Yeah… well, no…" He scrubbed at his face. "It's just… sorry, it just hit me all at once." John took a deep breath, and Sherlock could hear the tremor in his voice. "It's one thing for you to see me sick and weak and needing help. But … these are my co-workers, my colleagues. It's… it's as if you were to show up at the Yard in a wheelchair with an IV pole attached to you, for Lestrade and all of the others to see."

"You're ill, John. It's nothing that you did, or wished upon yourself." He rubbed John's shoulder, then slid his arm along his friend's back to rest on his shoulders. "Even shuffling along like an old man, you're still a damned fine physician, with a sharp mind and … and the biggest heart I've ever seen. It's not your body that makes you a good doctor. Or a good friend."

John nodded, and let his arms drop. Sherlock could see the tear-tracks glistening on his face. "You're right, of course. But… I don't want their pity." His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"No pity. You just make sure you are Captain John Watson, decorated and dangerous war hero, and I'll make sure to be your rude, sociopathic, complete arsehole of a friend. They'll be so pissed off at me that they won't have time to be condescending to you."

"You're terrible. You're incorrigible." John laughed through his tears.

"I try."


	12. Very Tedious and Very Boring

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twelve: Very Tedious and Very Boring**

Sherlock wasn't sure he was supposed to be present or not when Sarah examined John, but in the end he decided to stick close to John and bluff his way through the situation. He listened without interrupting or making corrections as John told the story, and watched as Sarah painstakingly checked his muscle strength, coordination, and reflexes, her face professional and mostly unreadable.

_She cares, but she can set it aside to do her job. I have never learned this._

Unfortunately, the quiet atmosphere of the exam room, coupled with the serious expression on Sarah's face, gave him far too much time to reflect on the situation. He'd almost managed to make himself forget his probable role in giving John the intestinal infection in the first place, until Sarah brought it up again in order to verify the date of his onset of symptoms. He felt his own gut cramp with nausea at the thought of how his carelessness might have brought all of this to pass, and how John might react if he knew the truth.

Finally she set down the reflex hammer. "John, I think you're right. It's an absolutely classic presentation."

He shrugged. "Hooray for the classic presentation."

"I already called Dr. Philpott. She's on call for Neurology today; she'll see you over at the hospital. You need to be admitted immediately, John. I'll call the inpatient team and make the arrangements." She coughed slightly. "We'll clear out your schedule here for the next couple of weeks."

"Okay." He climbed laboriously down from the exam table, held on with one hand. "IVIG still the standard therapy?"

"Yes. With any luck, Heidi will be able to see you and confirm the diagnosis in the next few hours. You could be getting your first infusion by this afternoon. The sooner, then better."

She turned to Sherlock. "If you don't have anything else going on today…"

"I don't," he answered quickly.

"…then I'd appreciate it if you can stick close to John. Be his advocate, make sure there are no delays. And make sure he does what his doctors and nurses tell him to do." She touched Sherlock's shoulder briefly. "I'd like to think that everyone gets the same care, all in a timely manner, but there are times when a squeaky wheel can make a world of difference."

"Hey, I'm right over here," said John.

"And I'm ignoring you." She took a deep breath. "Take care of him, Sherlock, and keep me updated, please, both of you."

He looked into those honest, worried eyes, and nodded. "I'll do my best."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

_Hospitals. They all smell the same._

John finished changing into the ugly hospital pyjamas and robe, and with much effort, climbed (rolled) into the bed. At least the hospital bed, with its electric controls, allowed him to position himself upright with a minimum of personal effort. He pulled the cotton blanket up, and sighed heavily.

Sherlock, who'd been banished to the hallway on the grounds that John did _not_ need his help to get changed and was _not_ looking forward to the general lack of privacy that he was going to be experiencing in the coming days, stuck his head back in. "Can I come back in, now?"

"Yes, come in."

His lanky friend slunk back in and sat in the armchair. "Now what?"

"Now, it gets really boring, Sherlock. They do lab tests on me. The specialist will examine me. Probably they'll troop some students through here as well. You should go back to Baker Street."

Sherlock shook his head, and John could tell that his flat-mate was going to be stubborn. "Sarah told me to stay with you."

John ignored him. "And then, after they all examine me, someone will do a lumbar puncture."

"What's that?"

"A spinal tap, Sherlock. They'll shove a large needle in between the vertebrae of my lower back in order to puncture the membranes and take out some fluid. Testing that fluid will help confirm the diagnosis. Oh, and if I'm really lucky, they'll come and do nerve conduction studies on my muscles. That involves sticking sharp needles into them and measuring their electrical action."

Sherlock snorted. "You are so transparent, John. You are trying to get me to leave by deliberately trying to make me feel squeamish." Despite his words, he did look a bit green.

John sighed. "Get out of here, Sherlock. Go home, go to the Yard, go and do something. Please. You hate hospitals, I know you do. I appreciate all you've done for me, especially last night… but this is all going to be very tedious and very boring." He picked at some lint on his cotton blankets. "I'll be fine today. Nothing exciting is going to happen, and I'd rather you didn't get too tired of the hospital." He swallowed, and looked back up at Sherlock, suddenly seeming less certain.

"Because I really want you to come back tonight. Come back and sit with me this evening, and talk with me, and watch telly with me. Because that's when I'll be lonely, and it'll hit me that I'm in the hospital with a dangerous, progressive neurologic disorder."

He could see Sherlock having some kind internal debate about whether or not to follow Sarah's instructions over John's (why hadn't Sherlock ever shown Sarah that much consideration when John was trying to date her?) and saw him finally nod. "All right. But you'll text me if you need anything, and as soon as you have any news?"

"I promise. If you can throw me my mobile charger, I'll make sure to stay plugged in and in contact." He tried to grin wickedly at Sherlock; it probably came across as nauseated. "If I'm bored, I'll send you random texts. Maybe photos of all of the oversized needles they plan to stick into me." He made a shooing motion with his hand. "Go on, get. You're looking a little ill already, and you've been here, what, less than an hour? Go away, and come back tonight."


	13. An Extraordinary, Startling Amount of

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Thirteen: An Extraordinary, Startling Amount Of Pain**

It was almost noon before the neurologist showed up. By then, John had already had his blood drawn, chatted with a couple of medical students (and let them test his strength and reflexes) and taken a short nap. He hadn't been bored enough to start texting Sherlock, but that hadn't kept the detective from sending frequent texts himself. Starting only about a half an hour after Sherlock had left, they came in a steady string.

_What's happening?_

_Has the specialist been in yet?_

_Any test results back yet?_

_Did the spinal tap hurt?_

His door opened, and a short, plump woman walked in. Almost bounced in, really, she had that sort of gait. She approached the bed and stuck out her hand.

"Dr. Watson? I'm Dr. Heidi Philpott. Neurology. Sarah Sawyer called me this morning."

He shook her hand. "Please, call me John. Everyone does."

She eyed him shrewdly. "So… I can't remember the last time I had a patient come in with Guillain-Barre who was self-diagnosed. Tell me the story."

He did so, making sure to include the episode of campylobacteriosis from about three weeks ago, and then adding last night's events of weakness and lack of reflexes. "And in retrospect, I've been very fatigued for about the last four-five days, but I thought I was just working too hard."

She nodded sympathetically. "We're all guilty of that. Doctors always make the worst patients."

After asking a few more questions about the illness and his general health, she examined him thoroughly. As far as he could tell, the results mirrored what Sarah had found earlier that day.

Finally, she sat down in the visitor chair. "Well…I concur with Dr. Sawyer. There really isn't much else it could be. I do like to get an LP to confirm the diagnosis, though. Are you up to that, John?"

He tried to smile winningly. "I had a bullet removed from my shoulder at an Army field hospital. A needle in my back doesn't worry me."

"All right. Let me go grab a nurse to assist me, and we'll get this over with."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

_._

Sherlock crept quietly up the stairs to the flat. He hadn't had time to alert Mrs. Hudson as to recent developments, so he really didn't want to talk to her just yet. He made it upstairs without disturbing here, and collapsed onto the sofa.

As soon as he had sat down, he jumped back up again and began to pace the sitting room. He needed to process the events of the last few days, somehow. While he paced, he mentally brought up the extensive article on Guillain-Barre syndrome that he had read the previous evening after John had fallen asleep.

At first, he sent John a text every few minutes, as questions popped into his head that the article raised. But as his pacing slowed, he finally put the phone down on the table and ran his hands through his already-disheveled hair.

_John is sick._

_John is in the hospital._

_He most likely has a serious neurologic disorder._

_He will probably get worse._

_He may end up needing assistance to breathe._

_He could be permanently disabled._

_He could even die from this disorder._

_He almost certainly developed it as a result of his intestinal infection._

_He developed the infection as a result of my carelessness. Probably._

_He doesn't know that it's my fault._

_I should feel terrible about this. Guilt, remorse. Most people would. I just feel sick to my stomach and don't want anyone to know what I did._

_I can't stop thinking about the way he looked, sitting up in that hospital bed, so resigned, so cooperative, so … so not blaming me for any of it. Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know that it's my fault, that I essentially poisoned him._

_He doesn't know_

_I don't want to tell him. _

He stopped suddenly, just a few inches from the wall, and slammed his fist into it. Hard. An extraordinary, startling amount of pain blossomed forth, enough to make him clench his teeth. He did it again, and this time the skin split across several of his knuckles and began to bleed. A third time, and he gasped audibly with the pain.

_I can feel this. _

He punched the wall one more time, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, then slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He crammed the injured hand into his mouth, biting down hard on the bleeding knuckles, and rocked back and forth slightly, eyes closed.

_John is my friend._

_He's always forgiven me, before, when I treated him badly._

_Why do I treat him so badly?_

_Will he forgive this?_

Tears flowed freely down his face and mingled with the blood from his hand, stinging the small wounds. He welcomed the pain. _John, please be okay. Please don't leave me behind._

_Please don't find out it was my fault._

After a long time, he climbed back to his feet, feeling cold and empty and somehow many years older. He pulled out his phone, studied the long list of unanswered texts, and added one more.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

After the procedure was complete, the neurologist discussed the plan and left him alone. John was finally able to answer some of Sherlock's insistent texts. He hadn't sent any more … wait, there was a new one coming through right now.

_John. Is there anything I can do? To help? Please?_

He stared at his phone. "Who are you," he said out loud, "and what have you done with Sherlock?"

He shrugged, and sent off an answer to one of the earlier, more typically Sherlockian questions.

_Spinal tap: the numbing-up shot hurts but the rest wasn't bad. For me. You'd probably cry like a baby._

The answer came back in just under a minute.

_Would not. I've had one. Psych hospital. They didn't know what was wrong with me and so they did everything._

John's eyebrows rose at that. Every once in a while he would learn something completely unexpected about Sherlock. He decided not to pursue that one any further.

_She thinks that I do have it though. G-B syndrome. Tests on spinal fluid will take an hour or so. Then they'll start treating me._

No answer for a long while. Then:

_How long before you can come home?_ If a text could be plaintive, this one was.

He typed back. _Depends on how long it takes my nerves to respond._

He added: _ On regular diet at hospital. Everything allowed. Please consider bringing emergency Chinese. Especially dim sum. Especially char siu bao._

Another quick answer. _I bet you can't manage chopsticks with this Guillain-Barre thing. You're going to drop it all over yourself._

And so on. The electronic banter made him smile, even snort with laughter. Sherlock might not realize it, but he was cheering up John far more by his remote presence that his in-person presence would have managed today.

And at 7 pm, he showed up, bag of savoury-smelling Chinese takeaway dangling from his bandaged hand.


	14. A Regrettable Loss of Control

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Fourteen: A Regrettable Loss Of Control**

Sherlock opened the cartons and spread the various tasty morsels on the hospital tray table. "They actually forgot to give me chopsticks, so I'm afraid your skills with those will not be tested tonight. You'll have to get by with a flimsy plastic fork, I'm afraid. Or your fingers."

This was a blatant lie; the woman at the counter had offered two sets of the usual disposable bamboo chopsticks. Sherlock had declined, thinking of what might happen if John did try to use them. _He'd just laugh it off, no doubt, but he doesn't need any reminders of his weakness and clumsiness._ A small voice inside him, easily ignored, told his that John would handle it just fine… that it was _Sherlock_ who would find the evidence of his friend's further deterioration too painful to witness.

His earlier breakdown had shaken him. He was unable to remember the last time he had been so completely overwhelmed by the consequences of something that he'd done. He knew that he hated to be mistaken, hated to be caught in an error, hated the thought of others looking at him with that mixture of blame and sympathy that he'd seen directed at those who had failed in some way. He couldn't take that. Therefore, the solution was simple: neither John nor anyone else could ever know about Sherlock's unwitting role in his friend's illness.

Knowing the source of the infection wouldn't help John's doctors treat him. In fact, Sherlock rationalised, knowing the truth could damage John emotionally at a crucial time when he needed to focus all of his energy in getting well. No one else would be at risk, since the offending bacteria had long been banished from the flat.

So he had pulled himself together, vowed to do whatever he could to be helpful to John during his treatment and recovery, and consciously stuffed the chicken-wing incident into the most murky recesses of his mental files. He didn't quite dare delete it entirely until his friend's health issues were completely resolved – what if his reasoning was somehow flawed? But he earnestly tried to pack it away where it couldn't consciously surface and make him feel sick every time he thought of John's illness.

John appeared to be properly appreciative of the selection of dim sum arranged in front of him, and the two of them munched away for a while. Sherlock only ate a few pieces but John demonstrated a good appetite. He interspersed updates on his condition between bites.

"Spinal fluid came back consistent with Guillain-Barre. So they started me on the IVIG infusion this afternoon." He indicated the IV pole standing by his bed. "It'll run part of the night, then they'll most likely do it again tomorrow. After that, it depends on how quickly I respond." He opened another container. "Hey, you got all my favourites! Anyway… PFTs, that's pulmonary function tests, to measure my breathing strength, they'll do those daily. Today's were pretty good, only a little down from normal."

Finally, he sat back on the bed and belched heartily. "Whoops. Oh, well, one's allowed to belch in hospital, right?" He patted his over-full stomach. "There's a fridge down the hall where patients and family can store food from the outside world, if you don't mind packing up the leftovers."

"Not at all." Sherlock stood up and started to herd the remaining pork shu mei, char su bao, steamed meatballs, and lotus leaf sticky rice into the takeaway boxes. "I could take it all back with me tonight, but of course you might want it for a snack."

"I was hoping you'd hang around for a while, anyway. Sarah brought me what must be her entire collection of DVDs, and I've been watching some on my computer. I thought maybe… hey, what did you do to your hand?" John used his plastic fork to point at the clumsy bandage on Sherlock's hand.

There was a split-second of pure blank terror in his mind, when he realized that he had forgotten to come up with a cover story. The simple truth was that he was no longer accustomed to lying to John. The rest of the world… for those people, he lied as easily as breathing, just like he'd done for his entire life. But most of the time he could be honest with his flat-mate.

_Tell the truth… or part of it, anyway._

"It's nothing," he demurred, knowing that too quick an answer would only raise John's suspicions.

"Sherlock," John growled. "Your hand is bandaged – and it's clearly a half-arsed job that you did on yourself – you're having trouble moving it, and there's dried blood soaking through. It's something. And you're not the only person in the world who's observant."

"It's a minor injury. It will heal without problem." He finished packing up the leftover dim sum, somewhat awkwardly, and closed the containers.

"It's your right hand, and the blood is coming from the skin of your MP joints – your knuckles. Did you hit someone?"

He sat back down in the guest armchair, trying his best to radiate an air of uncertainty and embarrassment. "I hit… something."

"What?" John's expression was tinged with both exasperation and fondness.

"A wall."

"A wall… you bloody idiot. Why… oh, just give it here."

Sherlock slowly proffered his hand, feigning reluctance. Even weakened by the disease, John's touch was sure as he peeled away the tape and gauze to reveal the injuries. He whistled softly at the sight of the bruised and swollen knuckles, the split skin. "Ouch. Okay, does it hurt here? Here? Not much? Now make a fist… can you straighten this finger?"

John worked his way around the injured hand, finally studying the cuts. "Did you wash these out? Thoroughly?"

"Yes."

John sighed. "I don't have any supplies to re-bandage this, but it looks like the bleeding has stopped, and nothing seems broken." He didn't let go of his friend's hand. "Sherlock, why did you punch a wall? Were you that angry?" Dark blue eyes searched Sherlock's own, and he found he couldn't meet that warm and worried gaze. He looked down at his hand instead.

"Frustrated would be closer to the mark." He swallowed. "And worried."

He felt John's fingers close around his, very, very gently. "Oh, Sherlock… don't be an idiot. How does you punching a wall and nearly breaking your hand help me get better?"

Tears stung his eyes. He could have produced them on purpose, to support his altered version of his story, but these welled up on their own. Apparently he was still a bit off-balance from earlier today. "It doesn't," he ended up murmuring, almost whispering. "It was … a regrettable loss of control."

"You do have your moments of humanity, don't you," said John quietly.

"I try not to," whispered Sherlock. To his horror, he felt his eyes overflow, felt the tears run silently down. He ducked his head, wiped at his face with his good hand. _I need to stop this, now, or John is going to probe more deeply. _He took a deep breath.

"I'll… just take this down the corridor to the fridge that you were talking about." He motioned toward the food.

"Leave it, Sherlock. It's fine for now." With an effort, John used his free hand to shove away the rolling tray table so that it was positioned over the foot of the bed. "Just come over here and sit for a moment, all right?" He tugged on Sherlock's fingers.

He got up out of the armchair and sat down gingerly on the hospital bed. John finally let go of his hand, but instead reached up with his thumb to brush a tear off of his cheek. He stiffened slightly at the touch.

"Stop worrying so much about being in 'control' all of the time, Sherlock, or you're going to explode someday."

He forced himself to smile. "That would be messy."

"Yes. And most unfortunate. You see, I would prefer you intact and unexploded." John sat all the way up, with obvious effort, then surprised Sherlock down to his toes by leaning forward and hugging him with a surprising amount of strength. "Don't hurt yourself for me, mate. Just … be around to help me, yeah?"

The hug was warm but brief; Sherlock barely had time to hesitantly lift his own arms and tuck them around his friend before John released him.

"Now go put those leftovers away, and let's sort through this pile of movies."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

He was already lightly drowsing, musing over the events of the evening, when the nurse came by to take his vitals at ten o' clock.

Sherlock had stayed a little longer after their conversation about his bruised and bleeding knuckles, but he'd clearly been tense and embarrassed by his earlier display of emotion and worry. He'd watched as John displayed the impressive collection of movies, miniseries, and documentaries that Sarah had loaned him – a selection clearly more slanted toward a woman's tastes than a man's, which would have led to some giggling on John's part had they both been feeling less drained – but had begged off on any actual viewing. He'd bid John a quiet good-night and promised to come back in the morning.

"Text me if anything important happens, though." Sherlock had stopped at the door, and fixed it with an unreadable look.

"Does that include the suspenseful surprise ending in _Bridget Jones' Diary_?" John waved the DVD case in question at his flat-mate.

He'd expected a snarky response, or a least a Sherlock-smirk; instead he saw only a brief, sad smile and a wave of a black-gloved hand. "See you in the morning."

So he'd watched a movie, or most of one; a WWII documentary that was removed enough from his Afghanistan experience to not be painful but accurate and thoughtful enough to engage his brain a bit. As always when he thought about the soldiers and civilians of that era, he felt a sense of awe for what the British people – _his_ people – had accomplished. _So much bravery from everyone, _he mused,_ from the airmen to the ground troops to the civilian volunteers… ambulance drivers, code-breakers, all of them. Even the evacuated children were brave. Who am I to be afraid of a little bit of neurologic dysfunction? _He felt stronger after watching it, better able to face his own demons.

He smiled at his nurse, Jeannie, when she came in. "Have a nice time with your friend, then?" she asked cheerily, slipping the blood pressure cuff around his around. "We could smell the Chinese food all down the corridor. Much more appetizing than the hospital canteen."

"Yes, lovely, thanks." He tried not to watch as the machine checked his BP and the finger probe checked his oxygen saturations.

"He's quite the handsome fellow, he is. Old school friend?"

He was amused at the hopefulness in her voice. Ah, yes, another conquest for Sherlock. At least she wasn't assuming that they were a couple, unlike most people who encountered them.

"Flat-mate. Totally brilliant, rather mad, and very loyal… but his social skills are a bit on the thin side."

She sighed. "Sounds like my little brother. Good-looking devil, but doesn't know it. Doing university-level maths by the time he was twelve, yet no idea on earth how to ask a girl out. Even now." She frowned at something, and John looked over reflexively at the portable monitor.

"Your oxygen saturations could be better. Take a couple of deep breaths for me." She watched the number, as did John. It had been at 88, and came up briefly to 91 as he breathed deeply. She listened to him with her stethoscope.

"Do you feel short of breath at all?"

He shook his head. "Maybe a little but that's probably psychosomatic now that I've seen my sats." He felt a cold sensation in his stomach. He'd hoped very much to escape any respiratory involvement.

She frowned again. "I think we'd better put you on the sat monitor, at least for the night. And a touch of oxygen wouldn't go amiss." She seemed to see the look on his face, and smiled at him reassuringly. "Just a nasal cannula, just a little bit of oxygen should be enough."

"I don't mind the monitor… but please, could you check with my medical team about the oxygen?"

Now she looked puzzled. "I need to let your doctor know anyway, but why?"

"I've got muscle weakness, not lung disease." He remembered trying to explain these concepts to medical students, way back when. "Look, you're used to putting oxygen on people with pneumonia or… emphysema, for example. They have normal breathing muscles, but their lungs aren't taking in the oxygen properly, so they need extra."

"Right."

"With me… if I start feeling short of oxygen, I'll breathe faster if needed, and eventually start feeling a bit frantic. The thing is, with weak muscles, I'm going to need to breathe faster to get rid of my CO2." He actually was starting to feel short of breath, now that he was talking so much. "The brain senses low levels of oxygen, but not high levels of CO2."

He could see some comprehension dawning on her face. "So if I put oxygen on you…"

"You run the risk of telling my brain that everything's fine, and I slow down my breathing… and then next thing you know my CO2 is through the roof and I crash. A little bit of oxygen probably wouldn't do that, but it's a risk I'd rather not take while I'm asleep." He tried his winning smile again. "Go discuss it with whoever's on call for me, and make sure to bring up all these angles, and you'll impress the heck out of that doctor."

She checked his other vitals (heart rate slightly elevated, whether from anxiety, his illness, or Jeannie's pretty face and clean scent, he wasn't sure; temp normal, BP normal) and went out of the room to make the phone call. In a few minutes she was back.

"You're absolutely right. Dr. Philpott said to just go with the monitor for now. We'll have to set it to alarm at 85%; if that happens we'll need to wake you up and check you out." She looked at him rather seriously. "She mentioned CPAP as a possibility if you needed it."

He nodded. That was the logical next move, often used nowadays in cases of mild-to-moderate weakness of the breathing muscles. It would still allow him to speak and eat, and wouldn't be too horribly uncomfortable, but he still hoped to avoid it as long as possible.

"Let's hope I don't."

She hooked him up to the sat monitor. "I hope it doesn't give you false alarms all night. You need your sleep."

"Sherlock, my flat-mate, plays his violin all night. I sleep through that, mostly. A bit of beeping won't be a problem."

"Do you want help getting up into the bathroom, while I'm here?"

He tried not to sigh at the indignity of it, but realized he probably would need her help. Sure enough, getting out of bed this time required her steadying hand under his elbow. She supported him and expertly guided him and his IV pole into the bathroom, and reversed the process when he emerged.

Having settled him back comfortably into the bell, with both the call button and his mobile phone easily in reach, she tucked the blankets around him. "There. Take deep breaths, and call me if you need anything." She dimpled at him. "And thanks so much for the little refresher course. You were right; Dr. Philpott was _very_ impressed."


	15. A Relatively Soft Sound

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Fifteen: A Relatively Soft Sound**

"Dr. Watson?" A hand was shaking his shoulder. "John? Can you wake up now?"

He swam slowly up to consciousness, half-relieved to be awakened. He'd been having terrible dreams. He couldn't quite remember any of the details, but there was something about being on a space station with the oxygen supply leaking out … _How bizarre… maybe I've been watching too much Dr. Who._

Blinking, he looked around. He was breathing hard and fast, as if he'd just run a couple of miles. His bed was now adjusted so that he was sitting up. Two nurses – his familiar Jeannie and one other, a small dark woman – were in the room, as well as a rather hulking young man that his practiced mind labelled _Respiratory Therapist_. He could hear a loud and persistently annoying beeping sound.

_Oh. My sat monitor._

He craned his neck around to get a good look at the monitor, and his heart sank when he saw it was reading 80%. And this was after they had woken him up and raised his bed.

"That's…" he had to stop for a breath. "That's not good."

"No." Jeannie looked unhappy. "You're far too low. How do you feel?"

"Short of breath," he admitted.

"We're going to set you up with some CPAP and see if that give you some support. Tony?" She stepped aside for the RT, who studied John's face and then expertly applied a tight-fitting mask over his mouth and nose.

"I know it's tight," he said apologetically. "We have to get a good seal. We'll start with a fairly low pressure, and crank it up slowly until we get some improvement."

"What time is it?" John asked, as Tony was adjusting his machine.

"About 5 am," answered Jeannie. "You almost made it through the night without trouble."

He nodded. Soon he felt the whooshing sensation of air blowing hard against his face, into his nose. He opened his mouth to let the air in there as well, trying to visualize his airways filling and his alveoli sucking in the welcome oxygen.

They all watched his sat monitor. 80… 82… 83 … 85 … the numbers gradually climbed over the next few minutes. Finally he seemed to top out at about 93%.

"Much better." Jeannie breathed a sigh of relief. Tony made a few more adjustments, then turned to him. "How does that feel? Breathing easier now?"

He nodded. He could tell that trying to speak with this octopus-like thing on his face, over the sound of the rushing air, was going to be difficult. Something to reserve for the important comments and questions, anyway.

"Good. Nice response." He turned to the nurses. "We'll leave him at that setting for now; call me if you need anything."

Jeannie stayed for a moment after Tony and the second nurse left. "John… just so you know…" She put a hand on his shoulder.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"I think there's a good chance we'll need to move you to the ICU today. I'm sorry. We'll talk with the doctors about it at rounds. But you'll be better off there, in case your breathing gets worse."

He could only nod again. She was correct. The CPAP would help but if his breathing muscles continued to weaken he would need to be put on a ventilator, and that meant the ICU. And everyone on the treatment team preferred to make those decisions before they became an emergency.

"But not just yet." She smiled at him. "I think you're good for at least a few hours now. Do you think you could get back to sleep for a while?"

"Do you think it's safe?" He croaked out the words, then had to repeat them while she bent closer.

"Of course. We'll hear your monitor if it goes off. You were just so tired, you slept through it, but we've got it out at the desk, too, you know." She touched his head. "That flat-mate of yours really must play violin all night, if you can sleep through your sat monitor going off."

He nodded once more, eyelids already dropping, and slid back into sleep.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Despite her words, it was a relatively soft sound that woke him a few hours later.

He blinked awake, trying to place what he'd heard. The rhythmic air whooshing noises of the CPAP hadn't changed. The monitor was silent. There was no cheerful nurse bidding him to wake up and order breakfast. No… it had come from the direction of the door, and it had sounded like… a quiet gasp.

Turning his head to the right, he saw a familiar lanky silhouette in the open doorway.

_Sherlock. Oh, shit, I promised to text him if anything happened… but I forgot and fell asleep. And with this thing on my face I probably look like I'm ready to be measured for a coffin._

He struggled to sit up a little more and look alive and in reasonably good shape, but a chill ran down his spine when he realized he really couldn't shift position. He was able to lift his arm, though, and to turn his head a little further.

"Sherlock?" he said, almost shouted over the noise of the CPAP.

His friend entered the room. The hospital staff had moved the visitor chair further away when they'd brought in the CPAP unit; Sherlock ignored it and walked straight to John's bedside.

"John?" His voice was strained.

John reached out his right hand, and Sherlock took it. "I'm all right." He was getting the hang of talking with this thing on his face. "I know it looks bad, but… it's not. Too bad, anyway," he finished lamely.

He could see Sherlock studying him, examining his colour and his breathing effort. Not for the first time, he thought to himself that Sherlock could have made a phenomenally talented physician. _Well, except for the complete lack of tact and nearly absent sense of empathy. And the inability to take orders from anyone would have made it pretty hard to get through medical school._

"You didn't text me," he said finally.

"I know." John knew it was useless to explain the details, how he'd been a bit busy trying to breathe at the time. "I fell asleep."

Sherlock sat down lightly on the edge of the bed. "This thing," he indicated the mask, "helps you breathe?"

"Yes." John nodded. "Just blows air into my upper airways. Makes it easier." He thought for a moment. "Sort of like having a tailwind when you're riding a bicycle… it kind of pushes me along." He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, they're probably going to move me to the ICU today."

"They expect you to get worse, then." A quiet answer from an almost expressionless face.

There wasn't much point in lying to Sherlock. "Yes, they do. So… I need you to get some things for me." A raised eyebrow. "Nothing complicated. Pen and paper."

"You have a computer. Use that… won't that be easier for you?"

"I doubt they have a printer set up for me to use. And this is something I want on paper, on my chart. Besides, you're going to do the writing."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

While Sherlock went to charm the nurses out of a good pen (always surprisingly hard to find in hospitals) and some usable paper, John sighed and picked up his cell phone. It was high time he updated his sister on what was happening. He'd listed Sherlock as his emergency contact but Harry was still his next of kin. If he were to worsen to the point of being unable to communicate with his doctors and nurses, he wanted to make sure that everyone understood his wishes… and he really didn't want Harry showing up at the wrong time and making a scene if that happened.

With the CPAP whistling and wheezing in his face, he knew better than to try to have a coherent phone conversation with her. Besides, it was early, and she'd likely be still asleep. Or hung over. He settled for texting.

_In hospital. Not shot this time, just sick. Might be here a couple of weeks. Guillain-Barre syndrome. Don't worry, Sherlock is hovering at my bedside. Can't really talk on phone easily but will text updates._

He hit 'send' with a faint sense that he was only delaying the inevitable, and set the phone down as Sherlock returned with a nice black pen, paper, and a plastic hospital clipboard. _He must have been very charming indeed._

"Good," he croaked. Even though the air forced into him by the CPAP unit was humidified, it was still doing funny things to his throat. "You can move that a bit," he pointed at his bedside table with the CPAP unit, "and pull the chair back over here. I don't want to have to shout."

Sherlock complied, his face an unreadable mask. "John," he said as he settled, "I really hope that this isn't a will I'm writing down."

"What? No, no, no…" John flushed guiltily. "No, I just want to be clear on a few things, in case I get worse… in case I'm out of touch for a few days." He swallowed against a lump in his throat. "For one thing, I want to make sure that you can visit me. Even though you aren't family."

"Thank you." He could hear the muffled exhalation of relief.

Laboriously, John went through the various points, and Sherlock wrote them down in his maddeningly beautiful handwriting. Sherlock to be allowed to visit, always and anytime. Other regular visitors at Sherlock's discretion. Harry, as next of kin, with same visiting privileges… unless Sherlock determined that her behaviour was a detriment to John's recovery.

"John… are you sure?"

"Positive." He breathed with the mask for a few seconds before completing his answer. "She's too unpredictable. You – and I, even if I'm unconscious – need an escape clause."

Then, even more difficult points. All life-saving measures to be used as long as he was expected to have a reasonable chance of recovery. Every attempt to be made to communicate with him before taking a new step, if possible. As little sedation as feasible if he had to go on the ventilator. No heroic measures if his brain was somehow felt to be injured beyond hope of recovery.

And Sherlock as the medical decision-maker if he was unable to communicate and issues arose that he hadn't covered in this document.

When it was completed, Sherlock handed it silently back over to John for him to read through. He read it carefully, motioned for the pen, and signed it with an effort. Then he dated it and handed it back to Sherlock.

"Here, you sign it too."

Sherlock frowned. "Shouldn't you have one of the nurses witness that?"

"It's not a will. It's not really even a legal document. But they'll respect it, as long as you're here to enforce it."

Sherlock took the pen and signed. "What do we do with it?" he asked in that same quiet voice.

"Nothing, for now. Just leave it on my tray table. I'll give it to my day nurse to make a copy of for the chart, and we'll leave the original in here somewhere." He watched as Sherlock placed the document almost reverently on the movable table, and grabbed his wrist as it came within reach. "Hey. Sit down over here again."

The bed shifted as his friend sat down on the edge of it. John looked at his friend, and saw the strain around the eyes and the shadows underneath then. He took a deep breath, or as deep as his weakened respiratory muscles would allow. "Thanks for doing that."

"You needed to have it done," Sherlock said simply.

"Yes… but I know it wasn't easy." He wished that Sherlock would take his hand again, but he didn't want to push his friend any further out of his comfort zone than he'd already done these last few days. "Sherlock… if they move me to the ICU… especially if they put me on the vent… will you try to stay with me?"

Now his friend's hand crept forward and took his, gently. "Will they let me?"

John glared. "'Course they will, you idiot. That was the whole point of writing all of that out. Those visitor armchairs all fold out into beds. Narrow, but should work for a skinny git like you." He sighed. "It's just that… I think if I end up on the ventilator, I'll be scared."

"I'll stay with you." It was a simple declaration, without exceptions or qualifiers.

"Good." John forced his recalcitrant hand muscles to give a squeeze. "Now, let's take another look at those DVDs. I keep hoping that she slipped some Doctor Who in there."


	16. The Indignity of it All

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Sixteen: The Indignity of it All**

The medical team came by at about 0930. Sherlock had agreed to watch a documentary on Arctic exploration (Sarah's tastes did lean surprisingly toward history) and John had fallen asleep again partway through. It was difficult to watch the movie together on the small laptop screen, even with the visitor chair pulled up close to the bed; when John nodded off Sherlock quietly paused the disc and closed the computer.

He was sitting in the armchair, just watching John sleep, when the door opened and several white-coated professionals came in. He nudged his friend gently, feeling obscurely panicky about facing them without an awake John armed with his arcane medical knowledge.

John's eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at one of the party, a short, plump woman of about forty with a long braid of tawny hair. "Dr. Philpott. Good morning."

"Good morning, John. I'm told you had a rather rough night." She indicated one of the others, a man about ten years older with a pleasant broad face and dark hair peppered liberally with grey. "This is Dr. Powers, from Pulmonology. He's going to look you over, and take over the non-neurologic parts of your care. I'm afraid you're getting a bit complicated just for me."

The other two were solemn-looking young people (one male, one female, both short on sleep and shaky with caffeine), and Sherlock assumed they were trainees or students. They stood behind the attending physicians with nominally respectful expressions plastered on their faces, and one was taking notes.

Sherlock rose from his chair. While he was hungry to hear the two doctors' updated assessment of his friend's status, he felt a little sick at the idea of being in the room while these strangers put John's body on display as a medical curiosity. This was no anonymous dead body in the basement morgue… this was his closest friend. "I'll just wait outside, shall I?"

He slipped out, not waiting for a response, and leaned against the cool wall of the corridor. He realised he was glad for the chance to be ostensibly alone for a few minutes; John's physical appearance this morning had startled him. He looked so much worse to Sherlock's hyper-observant eyes than he had the night before.

His own fatigue wasn't helping either. Last night had been difficult, returning to the echoingly empty flat with no company other than his own bleak thoughts. He hadn't been able to sleep. In belated obedience to all of the times when John had reminded him that the human body needed physical rest and railed at him to sleep, he'd actually tried. He'd dutifully gone to his bedroom and crawled into bed, but had been unable to slow his racing thoughts.

And every time he looked across the wide expanse of bed, his mind's eye saw how John had looked the previous morning, sleeping trustingly in Sherlock's own bed, clutching his hand for comfort.

He'd thrashed around and tossed and turned and eventually moved to the sofa hoping that would somehow be better. But his mind had refused to calm itself. In the end, he spent most of the night playing his violin… all of the most beautiful, languid, sad pieces that he knew. Playing for John, he knew, even though his friend was elsewhere.

This morning when he left the flat, he'd brought with him a small rucksack with a few personal items and a change of clothing. He knew he couldn't face another night like that, alone with his unhappy thoughts. He'd tossed the bag under John's bed upon arriving.

_Unless he looks really, really amazingly better tonight, I'm staying,_ he realised.

He felt a bit better just having made that decision. With perfect timing, the door of John's room opened just then and the medical team trooped out. He looked quickly at their faces but was unable to garner much; the two attending physicians looked distracted and faintly worried and the students just looked tired.

Pushing the door open without knocking, he entered. John hadn't moved; no real surprise there. His eyes flickered tiredly toward Sherlock and he smiled slightly.

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed again. "What did they say?" he demanded.

"What, you didn't have your ear up against the door?"

"Getting caught trying to eavesdrop on your private conversation with your doctors would likely get me thrown out of the hospital, John. I'm not taking that chance."

John sighed. "They're moving me to the ICU. No surprise there."

"When?"

"In the next hour or so. They'll set up my next IVIG infusion; I'll get them for the next few days or until I start to improve. Then they'll recheck my PFTs. If I fail, if my muscles are just too weak to breathe effectively, then they'll go ahead and put me on the ventilator electively."

"And you'd hoped to avoid that," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yes." John's hand twitched slightly, moving toward his friend. Sherlock grabbed it in his own, his heart sinking when he realised how much weaker it was than the day before. "It'll be uncomfortable, a little. And I won't…. I won't be able to talk." He swallowed, and looked up at Sherlock, dark blue eyes meeting his. "I probably won't be able to write, either. I tried gripping the pen while you were out of the room, and I can just barely manage it now."

"How long before the treatment starts to work?"

"No one knows. Every case of Guillain-Barre is different."

Sherlock looked down, at their joined hands. John's thumb was moving gently… back and forth across his palm. It seemed to have more strength than the rest of his hand.

"I'll keep your phone charged up, and mine, and make sure you always have yours within reach. You'll be able to text, at least. You only need the tiniest motion to be able to do that."

John nodded. "Yes, please. That's what frightens me the most… not being able to communicate. That… that and just the indignity of it all." He gave a short bark of humourless laughter. "I won't be able to do anything for myself, Sherlock. Anything. They'll feed me through a tube in my nose, and lift me onto a bedpan – if I'm lucky – and turn me over every two hours so that I don't get bedsores…"

Even behind the obscuring veil of the plastic mask, he could see John's face crumple, as he lost the fight against his emotions. "Oh, hell, Sherlock… I didn't mean to fall apart like this." Another half-laugh, half-sob. "I didn't want to cry about it. Damn it, I can't even blow my nose. Or wipe my face."

Sherlock leaned forward and grasped his friend's shoulders, pulling him up off the bed until John was leaning against his chest. He slipped his arms around him and hugged him close, trying to think of something to say that would help. _But I'm not good at that kind of thing,_ he realised. _John would know what to say to me, if it was me in this hospital bed._

So he didn't say anything. He just held his friend… carefully at first, then more tightly as it became clear that John was having a hard time getting the tears under control. Finally he seemed to quiet, his breathing becoming more regular.

"Do you want to lie back down?" Sherlock asked.

He felt John nodding slightly, so he tightened his arms around him briefly and then lowered him back to the pillows. He reached over to the box of tissues on the nightstand and used a generous handful of them to carefully wipe the tears from the parts of John's face he could reach. "Am I allowed to lift this up for a few seconds?" he asked, touching the mask.

Another faint nod, so he pulled it away just enough to dab at John's nose and mouth, then lowered it back into place. He threw away the tissues and settled back into his seat on the edge of the bed, with his friend's hand in his own.

"I can't fix you, John. All I can do is promise to stay with you… as much as I'm allowed." He squeezed his friend's hand. "I'll do everything I can to help you communicate. And I'll guard your dignity as best I can."

A faint smile crept across John's face, bringing a little bit of light to the red-rimmed eyes. "You don't have any dignity. Or any personal boundaries."

Sherlock tried to smile back. "Then I'll just have to learn about them."


	17. Not a Very Pleasant Thing to Watch

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Seventeen: Not A Very Pleasant Thing To Watch**

The transfer to the ICU was carried out with brisk efficiency. John tried to squelch his apprehension as his bed was wheeled out of the general med/surg floor he had been on, and through the corridors and several sets of automatic double doors. Sherlock trailed after, with his and John's personal effects.

They settled him into his room. This time, there were no pleasantly blank walls to shield him from the eyes of the staff; he was in a cubicle of mostly glass. Curtains hid the view into the other patients' rooms and another, half-drawn, hung on the glass door that faced the nurses' station. He did have a large window to the outside, but since they parked his hospital bed facing away from it he doubted he'd be seeing much of the London skyline.

Sherlock sank into the fold-out armchair as the nurse hooked John up to the monitors and switched him over to a new CPAP machine. She wore dark-blue scrubs and a nametag that read 'Melanie, RN', and smiled at John as he asked a few hoarse but important questions. Her long dark braid and honey-coloured skin, and slight lilt to her voice, made him think she was probably from an Indian family… or perhaps Pakistani? _Sherlock has probably figured out what village her family came from, her religion, and how long they've been in Britain,_ he thought to himself.

"We've a fairly liberal visitor policy here," she reassured him. "Unless you're undergoing a procedure or you're very unstable, you're allowed to have one support person here as much as you would like. Otherwise, no more than two visitors at a time… although it's a rule we break if there is a good reason. And of course, if we think you're not getting the rest and quiet that you need, we chase everyone out for a while."

"That's fine." That had been one of John's biggest fears, that Sherlock would only be allowed brief visits or only during certain hours. He knew that his friend would need to occasionally get away from the hospital, but he selfishly hoped that he wouldn't be left alone any more than necessary.

Melanie pointed out the call button, placed carefully near John's left hand, and made sure that he was able to press it. "Don't worry if you hit it by accident… we know you don't have a lot of strength right now. I'd much rather have a false alarm or two than have you feeling ignored." She also placed the remote for the television nearby, and (to his acute embarrassment) hung a plastic portable urinal off of one side of his bed. "You've got a fold-out commode over there as well," she explained, pointing to one side of his cubicle, "but you are absolutely not to get out of bed without help."

She patted his blankets one more time and smiled again. "Let's get your PFTs done. I'll send in our RT to do that as soon as he has time, plus we have orders to get a chest x-ray on you." Her face grew more solemn. "If we do need to put you on the ventilator, we want to have everything ready."

As she left, twitching the curtains fully closed behind her, he looked at Sherlock. "Well," he said with a certain amount of forced cheerfulness, "this doesn't look too bad so far."

Sherlock said nothing, but pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "No," he said at last. "No, but all the same, I hope you don't have to be in here for very long."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

The radiology tech got there first, with a portable x-ray machine. He took his pictures and left without saying very much. All too soon, the RT (a different one than he'd met the night before, tall and skinny) was there to check John's lung capacity. He coached John through the process, as if he hadn't already done it the day before.

"Okay, now blow, blow, blow…. Hard as you can, just a little longer, now, don't take a breath just yet, okay, now you can!" He looked at the readout on the computer, frowned just briefly, and then quickly smiled again at John. "That was your first one. They like us to do three tries, and then we go with your best result."

John nodded, and dutifully followed directions for two more attempts. He could tell, though, that his breathing effort was weaker than it had been the day before, even without seeing the results. It didn't feel like his chest muscles and diaphragm were sucking in enough air to make a difference, without the assistance of the CPAP (temporarily off his face for this test).

When all three tries were completed, John fixed the RT with what he hoped was his best steely officer/doctor expression.

"How bad is it?"

The RT didn't look at him. "Well, definitely a lot worse than yesterday," he said slowly. "I need to go show it to Dr. Powers. He'll be in to tell you what we do next."

He got John's CPAP mask fitted back on his face and adjusted the machine to his satisfaction, then nodded at his patient and left. John sighed and looked over at Sherlock.

"Well, here we go."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

The pulmonologist didn't beat around the bush.

"Dr. Watson, we need to put you on the ventilator."

John grimaced. "Please, call me John."

The specialist's facial expression softened a little. "John, then. Your respiratory muscles are getting rapidly weaker, and you're at risk for sudden respiratory failure. Or just gradual failure and CO2 retention. You need the help."

"Doesn't sound like I have much choice," John said slowly. He was already feeling more short of breath, and talking was becoming difficult.

"The good news is that your lungs themselves are beautifully healthy. Your chest x-ray looks great, except for a few small areas of alveolar collapse. But we'll pop those back open again with the ventilator. You've never smoked?"

John shook his head.

"So, healthy lungs will help. We just need to support you until the IVIG has a chance to work and your nerves start working properly again."

"When?" John forced the words out. "When are you going to intubate me?"

The specialist took a deep breath. "In just a few minutes, as soon as well have everything set up. I'll take your wishes into account, just like you wrote out… just enough sedation and pain meds to make sure you aren't conscious for the intubation itself, then we'll back off and only give you enough to make sure you aren't in pain or overly anxious." He turned to Sherlock.

"For this part," he said apologetically, "I'll have to ask you to step out, Mr…."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"It's not a very pleasant thing to watch, Mr. Holmes, so we'll send you out to the visitor lounge for a little while."

He looked at John, who saw the question in the pale eyes. John nodded at him.

Sherlock stood. "Will I… may I come back to be here when he wakes up?"

The specialist nodded. "Yes, very much so. In fact, we'd appreciate it if you did. A newly intubated patient – even a physician, who understands the situation – can become frightened or agitated when they wake up, and having a trusted, familiar face and voice nearby is very helpful. We'll send someone for you as soon as we know that the tube is in a good position."

Sherlock stood and took a step closer to the bed. His eyes met John's for a long moment, with a searching gaze, and he reached down and touched John's hand for a few seconds. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. John's hand felt noticeably colder to him after that touch was gone.

He cleared his throat and looked at the doctor. "Let's get this over with, then."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock walked out of the double doors of the ICU and then realised that he didn't know where the visitor lounge was located. But the smallish room was in the logical place, just to the left outside of the ICU doors. He entered the dimly lit space and sat down in a corner. There were a few other people there; two were napping on sofas and three were engaged in quiet conversation with each other.

He pulled out his mobile phone, and impulsively sent a text to Mycroft.

_John is in hospital. Very ill. About to be put on the ventilator._

He wasn't entirely sure why he sent the message. He knew that while Mycroft could be of help in many situations, if he chose, a medical emergency wasn't one of them. John was getting excellent care and no amount of interference from someone with political influence could buy him any better. Of course, Mycroft liked and respected John; perhaps that was reason enough to let him know.

He didn't admit to himself that he was frightened and wanted his big brother to tell him that everything would be all right.

There was no immediate response; Mycroft was probably in a meeting. Sherlock wasn't certain if he was disappointed or relieved. He put the phone back in his jacket pocket and leaned his head against the sofa back, trying to compose himself and trying not to think about the latent fear he had seen in John's eyes a few moments ago.

He almost jumped when he felt his phone buzz. He answered it quickly.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, even though he could clearly see if was Mycroft.

"What does he have?"

"Guillain-Barre syndrome." He spelled it for Mycroft, then waited. He could hear keyboard clicks and knew that his brother was looking up a quick description of the disease and skimming it for the salient points.

"You say they are putting him on the ventilator?"

"Yes. He's just not breathing well enough on his own." He felt his throat began to ache with unwelcome emotion. "It might be just for a day or two, or…" He stopped, fighting to regain control.

"I can be there in about 20 minutes, Sherlock. Do you want me to come to the hospital?"

His brother's unexpected, matter-of-fact kindness almost undid him completely. "I … I don't know. I'll know more in a little while, when they let me back in. I don't think he's up to a lot of visitors right now."

"That's not what I asked."

Sherlock took a deep breath, sensing the subtext. "I'm all right." _I'm not planning on letting my grief and worry drive me to cocaine or heroin, dear brother._

"You're certain?"

"Yes. I just thought you should be aware of what was happening."

"Keep me updated, Sherlock. I, too, am fond of John Watson."

"I will," he promised, and cut the connection before his voice could start to shake any more.

He sat there, alone in the semi-darkness except for strangers, until John's dark-haired nurse came to get him.


	18. This Illness Cannot Touch You

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Eighteen: This Illness Cannot Touch You**

The medications wore off slowly over the next hour. Sherlock sat at John's bedside, watching his friend's face, and held his hand. With John now robbed of the power of speech, even once he woke up, the message of touch was going to be important. Touch wasn't exactly a language in which Sherlock was fluent; on the other hand, John was one of the very few people on earth whom Sherlock allowed to touch him.

So he sat with uncharacteristic patience, with John's warm, limp hand in his, and thought about his friend… thought about those characteristics that made John who he was.

_Strong… yet surprisingly comfortable with feelings. Stubborn. Passionate sense of right and wrong. Wants to see the best in everyone, when possible. Reliable. Patient, at least with me. Brave, but not foolhardy. Understands people and their needs._

John's most salient characteristics were those least likely to be affected by a weakness of the body, he realised. His clever physician's mind, his warm and insightful heart… those would go on working even if his body couldn't recover completely.

_This illness… it cannot touch you, John. Not really. Not at your core._

He allowed his tired, sleep-deprived mind to slow down, his thoughts to drift, as long as he kept a grip on that hand. He scooted down a bit in the armchair and watched the dear, familiar face of his flatmate through half-lidded eyes. He was nearly asleep when he felt John's fingers twitch slightly, followed by a shudder that while slight, shook his entire frame a little. John was waking up.

Sherlock sat up straight and watched carefully as his friend fought his way back to consciousness. There were more shudders and twitches, then at last John's eyes opened.

"John?" he breathed. "Can you hear me?"

He was disappointed, because John seemed to fall back asleep again almost immediately. But the cycle repeated itself, and finally after about the fifth time that John opened his eyes, he was able to keep them open. Sherlock could see his eyes dart about, studying the room and the medical devices. He leaned closer.

"You've got a tube in your trachea now, John, to help you breathe. Do you remember that?"

John blinked, and Sherlock saw recognition in his friend's eyes. He relaxed just a tiny bit. "I've got your mobile all charged up, and I'll put it right here." He lay the small smartphone down on the movable tray table, near John's left hand. "Can you reach it, or does it need to be down on the bed?"

He saw John nod slightly, and took that to mean no further action was required for the moment. "Right. Well… I've got your laptop, and mine, and that stack of movies from Sarah… shall we try to watch something, if you can stay awake?"

He was rewarded by the sight of John's mouth, behind the tubes and adhesive tape, crooking upward into a faint smile.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

With everything that had changed, even with all of the fears and worries, it was surprising how quickly they adjusted and fell into a comfortable sore of routine.

The text to Harry went unanswered until the next day; John got back only a few terse words saying that she'd checked into inpatient rehab and was only allowed limited access to her phone. She did send him her love and stated she would try to see him as soon as she was discharged. Sherlock could tell that John was visibly relieved.

John was no longer allowed to eat normal food, since his throat was occupied by what he referred to (texting) as 'this bloody tube'; instead, the nurses put a slender feeding tube through his nose into his stomach, and a pump delivered liquid nutrition through it. He was still getting daily IVIG infusions, though there came a moment – three days after he went on the ventilator - when Dr. Philpott tested the grip strength of his hand and whistled softly.

"John… I'm being cautious, mind you, but I think that's better than yesterday. I think you're starting to get better." She grinned from ear to ear, and Sherlock felt his spirits rise. She sent him a physical therapist and an occupational therapist that very day; the two of them spent the afternoon assessing him and putting him through exercises with the few muscles that were very slowly starting to obey him again. Even Dr. Powers was pleased, and expressed cautiously that they might be able to take him off of the ventilator in the next 48 hours.

Sherlock tried to remember to eat. At least twice a day, when John was wide awake but undergoing something rude and personal like a bed bath or a session on the bedpan, he excused himself and went to the hospital cafeteria for some real food. He had no appetite, but he knew better than to give John something to scold about. Even limited to facial expressions and texting. John was able to effectively express himself. So Sherlock ate, and every night he folded the armchair/bed out and stretched out on it to sleep.

The afternoon that Dr. Philpott grinned at them and told them of her hopes that John was improving, he treated himself to a big slice of cake in the cafeteria… and ate it hungrily, with good appetite. When he returned, it was to the welcome sight of John Watson, army doctor, somehow managing – without voice or muscle control - to flirt with his very attractive red-headed occupational therapist.

Maybe everything was going to be all right after all.


	19. Of Pure, Unalloyed Gold

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Nineteen: Of Pure, Unalloyed Gold**

As nightfall approached, John seemed more tired than usual, and to have trouble staying awake for very long. Sherlock wondered if all of the PT and OT had just used up too much of his friend's energy for the day. His eyes still met Sherlock's whenever they were open, and his thumbs still had enough strength to send a couple of texts back and forth, but finally Sherlock took the phone away from him.

"You're going to drop it, and then we'll just have to get another one for you. I think it's time for you to call it a night."

John blinked at him a few times, and Sherlock reached up and carefully folded the forearms and hands into what looked like a comfortable position. Then he brought the sheet and blanket up to John's chin.

"That okay?"

This time, John blinked again and shook his head slightly. And if anything, the eyes now looked more awake, almost indignant. Sherlock sighed, pulled back the sheet, and tucked the phone back under John's left thumb.

"Just for a second. I don't know what you want."

_Hand, _John typed laboriously with his shaky thumb. _Yours._

Sherlock mentally chastised himself _How could I forget?_ They'd fallen into the comfortable habit of clasping hands late in the evening, while watching a movie or while Sherlock read aloud to his friend. The simple connection brought comfort to both of them. So he reclaimed the phone and placed it safely on the nightstand, then sat back down in his folded-out armchair/bed and snaked his hand under the sheets to grasp John's right hand. He felt it twitch in response, then the thumb moved softly against his palm several times, and the fingers squeezed his noticeably.

He smiled at the touch, taking comfort from the warmth and alive-ness of that hand, and slowly felt the day's tensions subside. He raised his head, and looked at his now-sleepy friend.

John gazed at him, eyes meeting his squarely until Sherlock managed a real smile. Then… he saw John's chin dip again in a nod, stronger than he'd managed in days.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock whispered. "I'll be right here. I promise. And you're getting better, you really are. I'll see you in the morning."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

He had a vague recollection of nurses and other staff coming in and out a little more often that night than the previous few nights. By now he was accustomed enough to the routine vital-sign checks and medication doses to sleep through those. But some other noises were relatively new, and therefore woke him. When he opened his eyes during one such intrusion, he could tell they were doing a thorough suctioning of the breathing tube. That happened several more times during the night.

It was difficult to be sure in his own sleep-fuddled state, but it seemed to Sherlock that there was an awful lot of phlegm coming up that tube. He really tried very hard not to listen, as the sound was strangely revolting to him, but as morning crept closer he was certain that John's lungs shouldn't be producing so much… stuff.

Daylight came, finally, and a new shift of nurses began to move quietly around the unit taking vitals. Accustomed as he was by now to the minutia of hospital routine, Sherlock caught the slight frown as the nurse checked the reading on the temperature probe.

"Problem?" he asked, trying to keep his voice both neutral and quiet. As far as he could tell, John was asleep, and he wanted him to remain so.

"A bit of fever," she said slowly. "I don't like the look of that, especially with what we've been getting out of his lungs. And his oxygen requirement has gone up. We'll have to see what today's chest x-ray shows, but he might have an infection in there."

The wait from that point to the medical team's rounds seemed to drag into many hours. Against his will, Sherlock feel asleep again waiting for them, and woke up partway through rounds.

"Most of the right lung is pretty well socked in on the film. Nurses are getting a lot of gunk out when they suction," was what finally woke him. He blinked and sat up.

"The sooner we start the antibiotics, the better, then." Dr. Powers leaned over the bedside. "John? Are you awake?"

Sherlock could see his friend's eyelids flutter, then open. The specialist continued. "John, you've got a pretty bad pneumonia. That's why you feel so awful today. We'll start you on some broad-spectrum antibiotics while waiting for the sputum culture… but we're also going to have to fool around with your ventilator settings."

Was that a faint nod from John? He told himself it was.

"You need a faster rate and a little more pressure, and some PEEP to keep your alveoli open. It's going to be pretty uncomfortable, especially now that you are starting to recover some strength. As bad as you are feeling already, I want to go up on your sedation and your pain meds. Just for a day or two, until we get this under control."

John blinked rapidly. Sherlock guessed what he was trying to signal. Leaning close to John, he put John's mobile phone, set to the text message screen, under his left thumb.

"Ah. Good idea." The doctor nodded at Sherlock.

Slowly, John hit the letters with his thumb.

_Do what you have to do._

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

As soon as the medical team left, Sherlock moved his chair closer, sat it up straight, and took John's hand. He had moved far beyond any self-consciousness about being seen holding hands with his friend. Any comfort, any communication that he could offer John was worth a little bit of embarrassment.

John still had the mobile under his left hand. Sherlock saw his thumb moving again.

_Feel lousy. Will be a relief to sleep for a couple of days._

Sherlock frowned, not liking the sound of that. "John," he said quietly. "Don't you dare start giving up on me. You're getting better."

_Not giving up. Just tired. So hard._

"Hard… hard to stay awake? Hard to pay attention?" He swallowed. "Hard to believe you'll get better?"

_Yes. All of those._

Sherlock lifted John's right hand and held it against his face. He felt it twitch slightly, as if to cup his cheek. "Then sleep. Stop being so stubborn," he whispered. "You've been so strong. Sleep, and wake up better. I'll be here when you come back."

He kept John's hand there, warm against his face, heedless of the nurse who came in to start the antibiotic infusion and the infusions of sedatives and pain relievers. He watched as she adjusted the electronic pumps. John's face, tense with worry and discomfort despite the weakness of his nerves that controlled it, gradually slackened into a deep and drugged sleep.

After the nurse had left, and Sherlock was certain that John was unaware of his surroundings, he kissed the palm of John's hand and then tucked his arm carefully under the blankets. He picked up John's mobile and plugged it into the charger, making sure that the sound was off and that no beeps or chimes would disturb his friend's sleep. Then he sat back into his chair, feeling more alone than he had in his entire life.

After starting bleakly into space for a while, he pulled out his own mobile, and sent a text.

_He's worse now. Pneumonia. Heavily sedated._

The response only took a few moments.

_Are you all right?_

He blinked back tears as he answered.

_I'm scared, Mycroft._

_I don't want to go back to being alone again._

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

He had to give his brother credit. It was mid-morning on a weekday, yet Mycroft arrived at the ICU in about thirty minutes. One of the nurses brought him back to John's little cubicle.

Sherlock stood up, slowly. For once in his life, he had no witty remarks on the tip of his tongue at the sight of his brother. He thought, as he had done so many times since that winter night that they had both stood over what they thought was Irene Adler's dead body, of the words that Mycroft had said.

_"All lives end. All hearts are broken."_

He'd thought, that night, that Mycroft was wrong, at least in the second statement. How could Sherlock's heart ever be broken, when he'd hid it away so well, and so carefully spent his adult life not caring deeply for anyone? It was only now that the phrase made sense to him; he felt a physical pain deep in his gut that surely must correspond to some vital organ being wrenched into two pieces.

He knew that his face reflected his fear and his brokenness, from the expression in Mycroft's eyes. There, he saw both sadness and concern, to a degree he couldn't remember seeing since he was very young.

Stumbling forward, he found himself in his brother's arms for the first time since he was a small child. He pressed his face into Mycroft's finely cut wool jacket, into the beautiful linen shirt, and felt himself held tightly. His own strength, his own optimism had suddenly, unexpectedly run dry, and he really had no choice but to cling to his brother and try very hard not to break down completely.

Part of him wanted to shout, to scream out against the unfairness of it all. Why John? Why such a good, unassuming, worthy man, who had given so selflessly of his talents and his time to fight for his countrymen and to practice medicine… and to hang about with Sherlock and be his friend and colleague? Why him?

Up from the dark recesses of his mind, bubbled the thought: _Because you were careless. You did this to him. It's your fault._

To his shame, he began to cry silently on his brother's shoulder. He tried to shove away the unwelcome guilt, to take refuge in his old aloofness and unconcern for his actions, but his body would have none of it. He could only hold onto Mycroft and hope that his brother wouldn't grasp the significance of his breakdown.

"Sherlock…" his brother patted his back awkwardly. "Breathe. It's not that hopeless, is it?"

He shook his head against Mycroft's shoulder. That wasn't the point. The situation was very far from hopeless; John had good physicians and a good ICU and everything was being done. There was still every chance that he would come home in days to weeks and be his old self with time. No, it was the unfairness of it all, that such a good man should suffer indignity and discomfort and worry, when he didn't deserve it.

_I never used to care about such things._

_But then, I never really cared about anyone._

With an effort, he brought his emotions under control. He pulled back and away from his brother. He couldn't meet that concerned gaze, couldn't think of anything to say… words like 'thank you for coming' or 'I'm sorry about breaking down like that' didn't exactly flow easily from his mouth. So he sat down, on the edge of John's bed, leaving the visitor chair for Mycroft. He took John's hand in his again.

"They have him heavily sedated now, to let the ventilator do its job better," he said listlessly. "He won't wake up until they turn off the medications."

Mycroft was still looking at him. "Have you been sleeping? Eating?"

"I slept last night, here. At least five or six hours." He thought about food. He honestly couldn't remember when he had last eaten. Breakfast the previous day? Lunch? No, it was the semi-celebratory slice of cake in the afternoon.

"Sherlock," sighed his brother. "I realise that it sounds trite, but you'll do no-one any good if you are exhausted and starving." His gaze was steady. "Your emotional state speaks as much of neglect of your body as it does the depth of your feeling. You need to take care of yourself, too."

Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand very gently, irrationally hoping for a response despite the depth of the sedation. "You're not going to take me to task for having feelings, for caring?"

"It's possible that I am not … infallible in these matters." Mycroft came closer, put a hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "It's true that I have advised you against caring. Based on who you are, and the life I expected you to lead, that has always seemed like good advice.

"I never anticipated that you would find a friend like John Watson, though." Now Mycroft reached out his own hand to touch John's short blondish hair briefly. "He is an exceptional fellow, and not at all the sort of person that I ever thought you would attract to your side.

"I think, little brother, that when it comes to John Watson… you had better take my current advice over anything I may have said to you in the past. Treat him as if he were pure, unalloyed gold. In the end, loyalty and companionship such as his are worth a few tears. You'll not find his like again in this lifetime."


	20. Something Almost Sacramental

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twenty: Something Almost Sacramental**

For Sherlock, the next hours blurred together into a melange of the usual ICU sounds and the rasping voice of the ventilator.

Mycroft left, after a few more minutes of quiet discussion, with a promise to return that evening for a longer period. He surprised Sherlock by embracing him again before departing, holding him for a long moment; Sherlock surprised himself by not rejecting the gesture.

John's fever soared. Sherlock blanched when he saw the number, wondering what that degree of hyperthermia was doing to his friend's fine clear intellect. The nurses applied a special cooling blanket to his body to bring it down. They suctioned out the breathing tube at frequent intervals, taking away copious amounts of greenish mucus. Sherlock finally had to start stepping out when they performed that task as the sound and smell made his stomach revolt.

Other aspects of what was happening to John bothered him far less than he expected. As deeply sedated as he was, he required total care. Sherlock found that helping the nurses as they turned and bathed and otherwise cared for his friend's needs made him feel a little better. There was something almost sacramental about helping to wash away the copious sweat and gently repositioning John's limbs so that he looked comfortable. He listened as the nurses told him about the specially-designed bed, how it constantly varied the firmness underneath the patient to help prevent pressure sores. He paid attention to the way they spoke to John as if he could still hear everything, explaining whatever they were about to do. Anything that was potentially uncomfortable or embarrassing was followed by reassurance, sympathy, and gentle pats on the patient's forehead; anything that could cause pain was preceded by an extra little bolus of pain medication.

"You see," said Marie, one of the nurses who worked with him the most often, "we never know how much the patients hear or feel. We know that even when they've been deeply medicated, some of what is happening gets through. So it matters." She finished replacing the blankets and looked up at Sherlock.

"Talk to him," she said quietly. "He might hear you. And especially for someone like him… young, and healthy until this happened… that's important. He's got a long road ahead of him, and he's going to need help."

Sherlock nodded as he picked up John's too-hot hand again. He knew that most of the ICU staff assumed that he and John were lovers, but he didn't really care too much about that anymore. Certainly they were kind enough to him and meticulous in their care of John; what did it matter how they classified the two men?

Mycroft came back as promised in the early evening. He held up a plastic bag of takeaway food. Indian, according to Sherlock's capable nose.

"I thought that it might be difficult to persuade you to leave him long enough for a good meal."

Sherlock managed a brief smile. "You'll give him dreams of spicy curry," he said dryly. "Not a very nice thing to do to a man who is eating through a tube in his nose." Hungry despite himself, he reached for one of the boxes.

"How is he?" asked Mycroft, after they had eaten in silence for a few minutes.

"About the same. I was here for evening rounds. Fever stayed up all day, lots of phlegm coming out the tube. They told me that his evening chest x-ray was no better but no worse." He chewed on some garlic naan. "Blood pressure is stable, at least. They think that his infection is only in the lungs, not in his whole body. They don't expect much improvement before tomorrow."

Mycroft was quiet again for a bit, then: "Have you thought about going home for the night, then? If he's stable?"

"I have thought about it. I sleep better here." He shook his head at the naked disbelief on his brother's face. "Mycroft, it's the truth. The one night I went home, I couldn't sleep. Here… I get woken up, it's true… but knowing that I am just a few steps away is what allows me to sleep in the first place."

His brother nodded slowly. "So be it, then." He fixed his gaze upon Sherlock. "Curious. I would never have expected you to become so devoted to anyone as to stay at their bedside like this."

Sherlock raised his head. "I've always believed in defying expectations, Mycroft. Surely you realise that."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I do. And it occurs to me that your response to the plight of your friend is good news for me… should I ever end up in similar straits." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll return tomorrow evening. Please keep me alerted if anything changes significantly before then."

Sherlock gulped slightly. "I will." As he watched his brother pull away the curtain, preparing to depart, he added, "Mycroft. Thank you."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Despite a long and restless night punctuated by suctioning, repositioning, and murmured conversations held by the nurses and RTs, Sherlock made a point of waking early the next morning, After checking with John's primary nurse about his stability and the likely timing of rounds, he even managed to sneak off for a shower.

_I'll either need to swing by the flat soon, though, or get someone to bring me more clothes, _he noted. He'd run out of anything resembling fresh clothing. He was surprised at how little this seemed to matter to him.

_Still… I'll see if Mycroft can send his PA to the flat and pack some things for me. Mrs. Hudson can help her._

He felt better after the shower, and after a quick look in John's cubicle to make sure nothing had changed, even went to the cafeteria to grab a bacon sandwich. _John would approve… sleep, shower, food. _

The day dragged. The medical team came by and reviewed John's progress. There was nothing in their assessment that came as much of a surprise to Sherlock, except the x-ray results. As much as he wanted to, he neither knew how to read x-rays nor had access to them in the first place.

"This morning's x-ray is better. Left lung is starting to open up, and the slight effusion that was there yesterday is almost gone." Dr. Powers flicked through the bedside vitals flow chart. "Still having a lot of fever but I think he's starting to trend down. Joe," he turned to the RT who stood near the ventilator, "let's try easing off on the PEEP now that there's less gunk in there. PEEP of 2 should do it."

Sherlock blew out his breath when they had left. No bad news; maybe some good news. He went back to his chair and picked up John's hand again. "So," he began quietly, after thinking for a few minutes, "this will probably come as no surprise to you, but I see signs that all of your nurses are becoming quite attached to you. Attracted, even. Marie just had her hair-colour touched up, clearly. Melanie has started wearing nail lacquer, dark maroon, in what I'm fairly certain is a violation of unit policy. I don't think they're allowed to wear perfume but I am catching hints of some very nice expensive soaps and shampoos."

He squeezed his friend's hand. "They've stopped calling you Dr. Watson; now you're 'John' to them, as well as various terms of endearment. Oh, and you may not have noticed, but Bridie, your nurse from last night, clipped your toenails and rubbed your feet down with peppermint-scented foot cream. I'm reasonably sure that wasn't from hospital stores. No, she picked that up at the Lush shop and brought it here just for you. No wedding rings on any of them, I notice.

"So, John… I'd appreciate it if you would tell your lungs to start working properly and get that infection clear, or you are going to have to deal with more than a few broken hearts here."

He stopped abruptly as he uttered that phrase, then leaned closer to the bed to rest his forehead against John's hand.

_Including mine…. John, please get better soon._


	21. Intriguing Secrets to Confess

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twenty-One: Intriguing Secrets to Confess**

Medications, x-rays, suctioning. Nurses and others in and out at all hours. Conversations with doctors, with Mycroft. Bites of food here and there, naps snatched in the fold-out chair. An occasional shower (clothes, and even pyjamas, thankfully delivered by Anthea at some point… he found it ridiculously comforting to put on his own pyjamas and dressing gown).

Sherlock realised he was losing track of time. Was it the second day of John's pneumonia and resulting sedation, or was it already the third? He had to pull out his phone and check the dates and times of his texts with Mycroft to be sure. He was jolted to see it was indeed the third day of sitting by the side of a silent, unresponsive John.

The day wore on. John's physical therapist and occupational therapist both came by to visit; it was clear from the way they approached the bedside that they knew he was too sick for any therapy sessions. Both spoke to him softly and caressed his forehead before leaving.

_People_ like_ John, _he realised. _Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe it's not that they find him attractive, so much as they simply enjoy his company. _

Lestrade texted him about a possible case, and Sherlock realised with a shock that the DI knew nothing of John's illness or hospitalisation. He'd simply not thought of notifying him, even though he knew that John considered him a good friend.

He sent back a terse summary of the events of John's illness, emphasizing the fact that their friend was currently unconscious. While he found Lestrade far less tiresome than he did most people, he didn't want the man showing up while John was still sedated to the eyeballs and Sherlock was still having difficulty with his emotions.

Because he _was_ still having difficulty. Every hour that John was incommunicado seemed to be making the situation harder. He found his eyes filling with tears without warning and for no reason, several times a day. More than once he had to escape to the privacy of the visitor bathroom to collect his thoughts and wash his face. He knew, logically, that is was his body's response to fatigue and extreme stress, but it was still embarrassing to him. Only last night (or was it early this morning?) Bridie the night nurse had caught him by surprise, dripping a few furtive tears onto John's unresponsive hand, and she had folded him into a warm, ample, scented embrace.

"There, luv, it's not so bad." Her Irish accent came through strongly. "Did you see, now, that I only had to suction him once tonight? And his fever's gone. He's getting better, your friend."

It felt strange to be hugged by this nice woman who barely knew him, but he tried to do what John would have done, and hugged her back and thanked her awkwardly for her concern. "Do you really think he's getting better?"

She smiled at him, then turned a fond glance on John. "Of course. I bet they'll starting letting him wake up now. He's starting to breathe on his own a bit, didn't you notice?"

Sherlock wasn't sure anyone had ever asked him that question before. "The ventilator…"

"It's set to give him a minimum rate, luv, but he's breathing above and beyond that. Even with the meds."

He felt his heart lurch painfully. "That's … wonderful. Thank you, Bridie."

So it was the morning of the third day of the pneumonia, and he was waiting for medical rounds, a cup of bad coffee in his hand. The ICU was full and there'd been some kind of emergency down at the other end, and the team was later than usual. He'd almost dozed off again – he was getting very, very good at catnaps – when he realised that Dr. Powers was talking.

"Temp down, x-ray almost back to normal. Starting to breathe on his own, that's great! Sounds like we can back off on all of the sedation meds. Go ahead and wean them as tolerated, Marie." He turned to Sherlock.

"Your friend is definitely rallying," he said, smiling. "Seeing him breathing more on his own is very encouraging. We'll lighten the sedation so we can get an idea of his muscle strength, and hopefully have him off of the ventilator soon."

"How soon?"

"Hard to tell. Day or two? It just depends. But he's definitely moving in the right direction. Heidi – Dr. Philpott – will be pleased to hear about the breathing control."

Sherlock watched as they left, then turned to Marie. She was grinning at him.

"You heard the man. I'll start weaning these down, and we'll see what happens."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

The good news heartened Sherlock, but he found himself exhausted and unable to stay awake.

"Go ahead and sleep," advised Marie. "I'll wake you if there's any sign of him coming to. Besides, you sleep like a cat… likely you'll wake up if he does anything."

So he unfolded the chair/bed and burrowed into the cotton hospital blankets, his relief at John's recovering state more effective than any sleeping pills. He slept deeply, and his dreams were all about John coming home, to the flat, triumphantly better.

When he finally blinked awake, it was already dark out, and a different nurse – Melanie, again – was closing the blinds on the window to the outside. He sat up, quickly.

"Any change?"

Melanie jumped, obviously startled, "I had forgotten you were there, Mr. Holmes. You're a very quiet sleeper. You must have been tired."

"Please. Call me Sherlock." _Isn't that what John does? Get everything on a first name basis?_

He stood up and went to the bedside. John looked exactly the same, sound asleep. His colour was good, and when Sherlock touched his forehead, his temperature still felt normal. He picked up John's hand, squeezed it, but there was no response.

"Is he still on a fair amount of sedation?"

Melanie had finished fussing with the blinds and had moved back to the head of the bed. "No… we're down to absolutely minimum levels now. But I'm sure he's tired, just like you." She smiled reassuringly at him. "In the morning, he'll perk up."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock wasn't at all surprised to see Dr. Philpott rounding with the ICU team in the morning. He nodded at her as she examined John.

"Muscle tone is much better than it was a few days ago. His nerves are coming back." She looked at the ventilator. "And he's doing all of the breathing on his own, now; this thing is just set to help him if he stops or forgets."

Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He cleared his throat. "But he's not waking up."

"No…" she said slowly, shining a light at John's pupils. They contracted normally and briskly. "No, he's not." She snapped the penlight off.

"He could just be a slow metaboliser of the sedation meds," she explained. "Some people are. But the way he's doing so well breathing on his own argues against that."

"The fever… it was so high." Sherlock gulped a little as he forced himself to ask the question that haunted him. "Did it damage his brain somehow?"

"What, the fever?" She shook her head. "No, it really takes very high temperatures to do that. Far higher than we've seen in John. No, that really only happens in the weird cases, when a patient has something wrong with them that interferes with their own temperature control."

He breathed a silent sigh of relief. "But why isn't he responding?" He hated the way his voice sounded, plaintive and childish.

She shook her head. "It's difficult to say. He may just be exhausted. He was so ill, for several days. Even with all of the medications, he may not have gotten good sleep, real brain sleep." She straightened up, looked at Sherlock. "Or he could be hiding. This has all been rather traumatic for him. He may simply not be ready to come back yet. Some patients do that sort of thing, after a severe illness.

"We'll get an EEG," she said, patting his hand where it lay clasping John's. "I want to see exactly what that brain is doing. And I promise I'll let you know as soon as I read it."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

The EEG tech arrived within the hour. Sherlock watched as she attached dozens of electrodes to John's scalp, then wired up the whole works to a portable EEG unit.

"There, we'll let it run for about an hour." She sighed, and stretched. "Nice to have one who isn't trying to rip the leads off… but you'd probably be happier if he was, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock declined to answer; instead he watched the squiggles on the EEG monitor. He couldn't read them; from what he knew, that usually took a neurologic specialist. But there _were _squiggles coming from each lead, and they varied in their intensity; surely that was a good thing? He cast occasional glances at the tech, who was humming to herself as she made small adjustments. She wasn't acting as if she saw anything alarming or was hiding something from him.

He returned to his chair, and studied his friend's relaxed face as the allotted hour crept by.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

It seemed an agonisingly long time before he heard anything about the results, but it was only mid-afternoon when Marie stuck her head in.

"Sherlock? Dr. Philpott's on the phone for you. We'll transfer it in here."

He waited for the hospital phone to ring, then picked it up.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"It's Dr. Philpott. I've had a look at the EEG, and wanted to let you know."

"Yes?" He held his breath.

"It's good news, I think. Just normal sleep patterns. He's cycling all the way through the normal stages of sleep, including even some REM sleep. He's probably had some eye twitching and we just haven't been looking at the right time to see it."

"But why?"

There was a pause. "I don't know for certain. Most likely, it's what I said earlier… just residual exhaustion and sleep deficit. We'll just leave him alone, and let him come out of it. We'll keep cutting back on the meds and the technology as much as we can, but I think for now we'll leave him on the ventilator. If this … sleep state goes on for much longer, though, it might be better to take him off. We'll have to see."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Talk to him," was the prompt response. "Talk to him. Just like you would if he were awake. Tell him a story, entertain him, ask him questions. Engage his brain somehow, even though he's asleep." She chuckled slightly. "If you've got any juicy gossip, any intriguing secrets to confess, that might be even better. I once had a patient wake up from a two-month coma when his wife – who thought he was dying, of course – confessed that their best man was actually the father of her oldest offspring. Made for a bit of an awkward time around here, although he did go on to make a complete recovery." He heard her take a deep breath.

"Mind you, I'm not saying John's in a coma. He's clearly not. But rarely, a severe illness can mess with the part of the brain – the reticular activating system – that programs our sleep patterns. If that's the case, it may take him a while to come out of this. But even as sick as he was, I don't think he was ill enough to cause that. He was never septic, never hypoxic, never 'crashed' on us."

Sherlock nodded in reflex, even though Dr. Philpott couldn't know he was doing so. "I'll talk to him, then. I … think I might have an idea of something that might get his attention, if he can hear something on some level."


	22. Don't Leave Me

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twenty-Two: "Don't Leave Me"**

Even though he knew what he ought to say, it took him a while to get started. He moved to sit on the edge of John's bed so that he could reach his hand more easily, and just sat there for a while with their fingers intertwined as he collected his thoughts.

"John," he began. "John, you've been very ill, but you're much better now. Your pneumonia is almost gone. Your nerves are starting to work again. You're breathing on your own, and you've got some muscle tone.

"Dr. Philpott says that you're asleep, that you're probably just exhausted after everything that's happened. Or that maybe you're hiding a bit, not wanting to come out just yet. She says that maybe if I talk to you, that'll help.

"I do have something I want to talk to you about, John. And it's a good thing you're asleep, really, because it's … it's something I don't want to tell you." He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. "It's something that I'm ashamed to tell you. But I need to get it out. Maybe it'll help you wake up, maybe it won't. But I've got to tell someone, and you're the only one I trust." He took a deep breath.

"It's my fault, John. It's my fault that you got so sick."

He stopped for a few minutes, not trusting his voice. He watched the familiar face, looking for an eyelid twitch, anything. When he started up again, it was in a whisper.

"It was so stupid. Just one of my experiments, but I neglected to clean up after myself properly, and I think that you got your intestinal infection because of that." Haltingly, he explained the story: what he had been doing, how he'd been interrupted by the text from Lestrade, how he'd never gone back to wash up the contaminated bowl or dishes.

"I forgot all about it after that," he whispered. "And then, when you told me what the infection was, I made the connection. And I should have said something then, probably… but you seemed completely well, and I didn't think it would have made a difference. Except maybe to make you angry, or disappointed in me." He swallowed. "I didn't want to risk that, so I kept it a secret.

"And then you developed your neurologic symptoms, and I knew that it was most likely my fault, and again I thought about telling you… but I told myself I that it could make your condition worse if I upset you. The truth is, though, is that I was just afraid.

"I'm still afraid. I'm afraid that you'll remember this, or enough of it to ask about it later, and that you'll be angry. That you won't trust me any more. That … you'll move out, and leave me alone again." He rubbed his free hand across his face, blotting up the tears. "But I'm more afraid that you just won't wake up. That you won't get better, and I'll have to live with knowing that I did this to you."

He had to stop then, and he bowed his head over their joined hands while he fought for control. "Please wake up, John," he said brokenly. "Please. Even if you're angry, even if you hate me, even if you're going to never speak to me again. You have to wake up. You have to get better. Don't leave me with knowing that I did this to you."

He sat there for a long time, tears running down his face unchecked. At last he stood up, turned away and started to pull his hand out of John's… when he thought he saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned back.

_Did that really just happen, or is my tortured mind playing tricks on me? No, there it is again!_

John's eyelids twitched a few times, then fluttered open, and his eyes roved for a moment… then his gaze fixed on Sherlock's face.

"John," he breathed almost inaudibly. He leaned forward to look more closely at the dark blue eyes. Sure enough, there was consciousness there, and even recognition. The hand he was holding first twitched slightly, then squeezed his for a long moment.

John's other hand – his left – also moved a little, then the index finger pointed up, toward the endotracheal tube. His eyebrows rose in an unmistakable question.

"Yes… they did say they would take the tube out if you woke up. You've been completely breathing on your own for at least a day and a half now." He reluctantly let go of John's hand and got off the bed. "I'll be right back."

He stuck his head out of the cubicle, and heedless of the tears still on his face signalled excitedly to the first familiar face he saw… Melanie, who was just coming on shift. She looked up in alarm as he approached.

"No, it's all right. He's awake," he said, his quiet words belying the joy that was even now burbling up inside of him. "He's completely awake, and he'd really like to have the tube out."

Her face lit up. "Great! We've got a standing order to take it out when he woke up. Let me get the respiratory therapist, and we'll have that out in a jiffy."

Sherlock sat back down on John's bed and took his hand again. He was relieved to see that John was still awake, and even appeared to be smiling slightly. A thought occurred to him.

"John… what I was talking about, I mean, the story I was telling you … did you hear it? All of it?"

A small nod from John.

"Oh." Sherlock gulped, and felt a little sick. "I mean, good, excellent. Um… are you angry at me?" He couldn't bear the eye contact any longer, and looked away. "Are you going to shout at me, once you get the tube out of your throat?" _Are you going to hate me?_

_Even if he hates me… it's worth it. It's worth it to see him awake again._

He felt a tugging on his hand, and looked down at their interlaced fingers, then at John's arm. Which was, for the first time in many days, beginning to flex at the elbow. Slowly, John pulled Sherlock's hand closer to him, until at last he had brought it all the way to his face, to touch the knuckles to his lower lip. Sherlock leaned closer to make it easier.

John's hand, obviously tired, fell away, and Sherlock lifted his own hand to cup his friend's face gently. "You're not angry, then?"

A small head-shake. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a moment, willing them _not _to well up with tears again.

He was saved by the arrival of Melanie, along with Joe the RT. "All right, John," she chirped. "Let's get that thing out of your throat. Be ready to hold your breath when I tell you to, and follow my instructions."

Sherlock slid hastily off the bed. He'd handled most aspects of John's illness with rather more aplomb than he would have expected from himself, but he knew that this quick procedure would involve things like mucus and suctioning. _Phlegm, ugh… I hope I never, ever hear that sound again._ "I'll just be outside for a few moments. I'll be back as soon as it's out. I promise." He squeezed John's hand and made a hasty retreat.

He used the time, standing outside the curtain-and-glass door, to pull out his mobile phone and send a text to Mycroft.

_He's awake, and the breathing tube is coming out right now. He's going to be all right._

The musical chime as the text flew away might as well have been a triumphant fanfare as far as Sherlock was concerned. He leaned against the glass, smiling so hard his face hurt, until Melanie's own grinning, honey-coloured face re-emerged.

"All set, Sherlock, you can come back in now."


	23. There's Plenty of Time to Talk

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twenty-Three: "There's Plenty of Time To Talk"**

He practically flew into the cubicle, then stopped just inside the doorway as Melanie and Joe tidied up a few items. They unplugged the ventilator and wheeled it out past him, then shut the curtain and left him alone with John.

Sherlock felt absurdly uncertain, and his grin faded. There was a world of difference between sitting with a critically ill and then unconscious friend, and seeing that friend once again awake and alert and able to speak again. What was appropriate here, and what wasn't? He thought of all of the hours he'd spent clutching that warm but unmoving hand, all of the encouragement he'd offered, and especially of the sentimental (but finally, utterly truthful) confession he'd made just before John awakened. How much would his friend really remember of what had happened, and of what Sherlock had said?

_Will he forgive me?_

So he just stood there, looking at John, until John raised both his arms a few inches and then let them drop again.

"Get over here, you idiot." The voice was hoarse but recognizably John's.

Sherlock felt his smile come back, truly an idiot grin to match John's description of him. As he crossed the little room to sit back down on the bed he felt tears prickling at his eyes again.

"You're such a soldier," he said lightly. "Unable to talk for a week, and the first words out of your mouth are an order."

"Shut up and hug me."

Sherlock leaned forward and gathered John up off the pillows and into his arms. His friend felt feather-light against him, so much thinner than he ought to be. He tucked John's head against his shoulder, and held him as carefully as if he were spun out of glass. He felt John's arms come around him and return the embrace, weakly but for at least several seconds before his arms dropped again.

"Sorry, Sherlock, the heavy lifting is still going to be up to you for a while," he quipped.

"There's nothing of you left to lift," murmured Sherlock.

There was a noise behind him, a throat-clearing from an all-too-familiar source. Sherlock ignored it for a little longer, then tightened his arms briefly around John again before releasing him and settling him back down on the pillows. "Hello, Mycroft," he sighed without turning around. "Just because I updated you, doesn't mean I was inviting you to visit. And how did you get here so fast?"

"John is my friend too, dear brother. I merely wished to verify his recovery with my own eyes. John, how are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you, Mycroft." John's face wasn't quite readable. "I… wonder, though… would you mind terribly if I talked with Sherlock alone for just a little while longer? We've got a couple of important things to discuss."

Sherlock held his breath. For once, he almost wished his brother would decline to leave. But Mycroft was of course too polite and well-mannered to ignore such a reasonable request. "Of course, John. I'm certain you must have rather a lot to say to one another," he said smoothly. "I'll be in the visitors' lounge, Sherlock, you may fetch me when the time is … appropriate."

He slipped out. Sherlock resisted the temptation to say something predictably irritating. Instead, he looked at John, at his weary, wise, generous flatmate, his heart in his throat.

"You said you weren't angry," he said in a small voice.

"I thought I was going to die, Sherlock. Gives one perspective. There doesn't seem to be much point in being angry." He sighed. "I have to ask, though… was it some kind of experiment? Was I being your guinea-pig again, your lab rat? Because if so, I think we are going to have to establish some new ground rules." His voice still didn't sound angry, just hoarse and very disappointed.

"What… no, John, I swear. I swear it was an accident." He felt his control breaking down… helped by exhaustion and the emotional swings of the last few days. "I would never hurt do anything to hurt you like that."

_Except… except that I don't exactly have the best track record along those lines,_ he thought, remembering the lab at Baskerville.

He put his hands over his face, felt tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. His throat ached, and he could feel sobs – horrible, embarrassing noises - trying to escape.

_Oh, John, I'm so sorry._

_Say it out loud._

_If you really mean it, say it._

"John," he choked out. "John, I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm so sorry." He drew a deep, sobbing breath. "I'm sorry I was so careless, and I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry… that you had to almost die before I could tell you the truth."

The dam broke, _or was that his heart_? and he wept helplessly, wildly, into his hands. He heard the curtain flick aside briefly, and knew that one of the nurses had looked in for a second to make sure there wasn't a medical emergency. Which meant he was crying so loudly they could hear him out at the nurses' station.

He didn't care.

Nothing mattered, now, nothing. He'd messed up. He'd messed up, not just by his stupid mistake with the bacteria-laden chicken wings, but by betraying John's trust enough times in the past that his friend could believe that it was all another experiment gone bad.

He stuffed the heel of one hand in his mouth to try to muffle the sounds, and bit down hard, and cried until he thought he would be sick. He heard his name being called, faintly, hoarsely, but he couldn't stop.

It was a light touch on his knee that finally brought him out of it. He opened his eyes to stare dully at the hand feebly clutching his kneecap, and subsided into a gulping near-silence.

"Sherlock, stop it!" John's voice, of course, and now filled with anguish. "Please. It's all right. Or it will be."

He looked up in time to see a tear tracking down John's face, leaving a silvery trail from one of his red-rimmed eyes. "Help me up, you idiot."

Sherlock leaned forward and lifted his friend away from the pillows again, and felt fresh tears run down his own face (how was it possible he had any left?) as John wrapped his weakened arms around him.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered.

"Shhh… don't talk. It's all right. Just breathe for a moment."

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in John's shoulder, hugged him as tightly as he thought his friend's convalescent body could take. He took slow deep breaths as instructed, and felt the shudders gradually fade away.

Several more times, he tried to speak, tried to go back to apologizing and _explaining_ but John hushed him again. "Shhh. There's plenty of time to talk, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

That almost set him off crying again, but he gulped and hung on and tried to relax. At last, he felt some peace steal into his heart. John was holding him, reassuring him, even though Sherlock was having what amounted to a complete breakdown. It seemed like whatever else was in their future, it wasn't going to involve John rejecting him and sending him away because of what he'd done.

Finally he drew back very carefully, still supporting John by his upper arms. "Would you like to lie back down?" he asked quietly.

"Are you all right now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then yes… sorry, but my muscles are still not behaving well."

"Don't be sorry. You're alive. You don't have to be sorry for anything." He lowered John back onto the pillows, then took both his hands and held them tightly while he tried to smile at his friend. He sniffed loudly.

"You'd better not be dripping snot on me," John's still-hoarse voice was tinged with amused warmth. "I'm a sick man. I can't handle the germs."

Sherlock laughed through his tears. "Your immune system is just fine. It's only your nerves that had to go and forget how to work." He released one of John's hands long enough to rub his sleeve across his eyes and nose. "How do you feel, really?"

"Like I've been given a second chance." His gaze was serious. "And like I'd better not waste it."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I screwed up."

"Stop it." The admonition was tinged with warmth and punctuated by a squeeze of John's hand. "Look… go find your brother, now. We've left him out in the visitor lounge for far too long. You don't want him to start a war or anything, do you?"

"No." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I would rather not see him… looking like this, though. I'll send one of the nurses, and I'll go wash my face."

"Sherlock, he's your brother. You can't convince me he's never seen you cry before." John smiled. "It's an ICU. There's human drama all around us, and I'm alive. I'm going to be all right. That's worth a few tears, yeah?"

The words were so close to those that Mycroft had used that day, when Sherlock had allowed his brother to see his fear and grief, that he caught his breath for a moment. He studied the warm, familiar face in front of him, and finally nodded. "All right. I'll go and fetch him." He rose, but turned back as he reached the door.

"What I told you… what I did, how it was my fault… that's between us?"

John shook his head, and even that simple motion was clearly carried out with more strength than before the ordeal of the last few days. "I wasn't planning on telling anyone else, no. No one else needs to know it, Sherlock. Not Mycroft, not anyone."

"Thank you for that, John," he answered softly.

"Let's see if Mycroft gets all choked up and hugs me," joked John. "Then I'll really wonder if they're still slipping me some of the good meds."


	24. Stubborn and Hard to Kill

**A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Twenty-Four: Stubborn and Hard To Kill**

"All right… how are we going to do this?" Lestrade looked around the entry hall.

"Simple," answered John. "I'm going to go up those stairs, carefully, and you two blokes can fight over who takes the wheelchair up."

Sherlock folded his arms. "John, you haven't tried stairs yet. They've barely got you walking for short distances on level ground."

"Yes, well, not a lot of stairs in the PT suite at the hospital, are there? And you wouldn't let me try the emergency stairwell." He grinned at both of them, enjoying their reactions.

e

Lestrade stepped back, scratched his head. "John, I'm sure that we could carry you up. With or without the wheelchair."

"No. I do not need to be carried. I'll hang onto the rail, and one of you can be with me to help. It's either that or I'm moving in with Mrs. Hudson until I can get up the stairs under my own power. Or mostly my own power. I'm sure she'd be happy to have me taking up space on her sofa for a bit." He made sure that the wheelchair brakes were on, and folded the leg- and foot-rests out of the way as he prepared to rise. Sherlock rushed over to help.

"Get out of my face, Sherlock. I can do this. Besides, you don't know anything about wheelchairs." He stood up, holding the chair for support. "Cane?"

Lestrade handed him the cane. "You're a stubborn man, John."

"That's why I'm alive, Greg."

He could feel the eyes of the other two men on his back as he made his careful way up the stairs. It was hard work, and he was a bit puffed when he made it to the top, but he did it. He leaned on his cane as he reached the flat entrance, and lowered his head to catch his breath.

Lestrade came clanking up behind him carrying the folded wheelchair. "Nice going, John. Where do you want this?"

John waved. "Anywhere. I'm really hoping to not use it, truthfully. In fact, I should have had you leave it downstairs. I'll do fine here in the flat with just a cane."

Lestrade stowed the wheelchair in a corner while John looked around. The flat looked the same, if quite a bit cleaner than when he'd left it. He suspected Mrs. Hudson's hand in that, or perhaps Mycroft had dispatched a professional. Anything was possible.

Indeed, anything _was_ possible. He was alive, and getting stronger every day. _There is something, really, to this idea of death and rebirth. That's twice now, at least. How many lives do I have?_

Sherlock entered the flat, laden with John's belongings from the hospital. "You entered hospital with one small bag. Where did all of this come from?" He dropped the plastic 'Patient Belongings' bags on the floor unceremoniously.

"Friends. Hospital staff. Well-wishers. My fan club, you know." He made his careful way over to his favourite armchair, and lowered himself into it with a contented grunt. "And you know very well that you kept bringing me books and movies and such from here. Just be glad I left all of the flowers for the nurses."

"You've got a plant, though." Lestrade pointed at some spiky green leaves showing at the top of one of the bags.

"Yes. That one… that one's a bit special." His eyes met Sherlock's across the room in a gaze that spoke without words. "I'll have a go at keeping that one alive. It's supposed to be able to handle low light, irregular watering, and general neglect."

Lestrade snickered, and fished out the plant. He set it on their coffee table. "Perfect for here, then." He straightened up. "Right then, I should get back to the office. Anything else you need?"

"No… Mycroft had the kitchen stocked back up with food yesterday." Sherlock looked up from his perusal of John's luggage. "There wasn't much in here that was edible by then."

John's eyebrows rose. He hadn't known about that. "How does Mycroft know what kind of groceries we use? Never mind, I'm not sure I want an answer to that." He stuck out his hand, and Lestrade shook it warmly. "I'd see you out, Greg, but Sherlock is going to have to play host for a while. Getting up and down out of a chair is honestly still one of the hardest things for me."

Lestrade's upper lip twitched. "You could always get one of those special chairs for the elderly… you know, the ones with the seat that gives you a bit of a push up."

"Out. Back to work." John pointed with his cane. "Before you give Sherlock ideas."

The DI left with a wave and a grin. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, near the spiky little plant. He leaned forward and stroked one of its leaves briefly, then sat back.

"John… I took the liberty of having Mycroft's errand boys shift most of your things down here, down to my room, and vice versa. I figured it would be best it we traded for a while."

John sighed. "You're right, of course. It's going to be a while before I'm ready to tackle that many stairs, that regularly."

"I had them leave the furniture and beds the way they are, but your clothes and everything else are downstairs now. I'm happy to help you rearrange it however it works for you."

"That's fine." John leaned back in his chair, slightly sleepy after the work of coming home, and feeling pleasantly euphoric. "It won't take long, anyway. Louise says she thinks I'll be walking normally again in about two weeks."

"Good, excellent. John…"

John cast him a questioning look.

"I did leave some of my things down here, in my bedroom. I… was going to recommend that I stay down here with you, the first couple of nights. I'd hate to have you need something in the middle of the night, without me at hand." He looked at John with slightly haunted eyes. "Or worse, have you fall, and not know about it. But I can sleep on the sofa, if you'd rather have some privacy."

John laughed. "Sherlock… I just got out of the hospital, where I've had absolutely _no_ privacy… tubes and monitors, people coming in and out at all hours, nurses suctioning my throat and wiping my arse… and you on hand, absolutely glued to my bedside."

Sherlock nodded, his face a bit guarded. "I understand. I'll sleep out here, so I can at least hear you if there's a problem."

"You idiot." John looked at him fondly. "Just getting out of hospital and home again … that's all the privacy I need just yet. You may feel free to keep yourself glued to my bedside for a while longer. I think… I think we both need that, for now." _No 'think' about it… I know we'll both sleep better if he's there._

Sherlock, who looked a bit embarrassed, cleared his throat and picked up the plant. "Where do you want this to live?"

John felt his throat tighten slightly. "Anywhere. Anywhere I can see it every day."

The plant had came to him the day after he'd awakened, right after he'd been moved out of the ICU back into a regular hospital room. Sherlock had been gone for a few hours on some errands, or so he'd told John. It was easily the longest they'd been apart for several days. The ward clerk had knocked on his door and given him the plant.

"Just delivered now," she'd said in a cheery voice. "Should look nice with the flowers." She'd pointed to the bouquet of carnations on his bedside table, a gift from Mrs. Hudson.

He'd absently pulled the card from the plant, expecting to read a message from… oh, Molly, or someone from the Yard, or Sarah. His eyebrows had shot up when it saw it was from Sherlock.

_John:_

_The woman at the florist assures me that this particular specimen is stubborn and hard to kill. It can handle being cooped up inside, infrequent watering, and even poor air quality. It's a bit like you, then._

_I know you'll take excellent care of it. I hope that in the days and weeks to come, I can show you the same care. _

_Forgive me for my carelessness. Please know that you have my eternal gratitude for surviving._

_Your friend, always,_

_Sherlock_

He watched as Sherlock moved the plant over to the desk, where it might catch a bit of light from the windows. He cleared his throat.

"How about a spot of tea, then?"


End file.
